


Burning Sky

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awesome Bobby, Awesome Sam, Bathing/Washing, Bitchy Dean, Blow Jobs, But he ignores it, Canon-Typical Violence, Cas takes some initiative, Come Swallowing, Confused Dean, Cuddling, Dean Gets It, Dean in Denial, Dry Humping, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Frantic Sex, Freaked Out Dean, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Headcanon, Homophobic Language, Horny Dean, Human Castiel, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Lube, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Masturbation, Masturbation Interuptus, Oblivious Castiel, Ogling, Oral Sex, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasty, Sexual Frustration, Shower Sex, Slash, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Burn, Teasing, Wall Sex, Wild Sex, objectification of women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been five years since that night in the field, and Dean and Cas have settled into a placid little relationship and are maintaining the status quo.  But when Sam gets laid up in a hunting accident, Dean takes Cas out on the next job, just the two of them.  And once they’re alone, Dean realizes that the past five years of near-celibacy have been frustrating him more than he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can't Get Enough

_December 9, 2017_

Well, there was at least one good thing about going on a hunt with just Cas—Dean could set him on research duty all by himself and he wouldn’t make that pissy bitchface at him for it like Sam did.

But that was the only good thing. He was terrible for conversation, constantly turned up the thermostat when Dean wasn’t looking, minced around the room stark naked, and was—making Dean— _think_ things he shouldn’t.

He hadn’t been lying when he said he felt a bit tired, so he wanted to take a quick shower and then nap for an hour before going back to business. He just…hadn’t said why. And the reason was because he really, really needed to get away from Cas right now, but he couldn’t justify going out and driving around because they still had work to do and it was friggin’ cold out there, and besides, using a nap as an excuse was much more appealing. Even if he was in the same room as Cas, he wouldn’t be _aware_ of Cas.

Aware of the fact that they were alone.

Dean had to catch himself from slamming the door to the bathroom, otherwise Cas might go and get all Concerned that Dean was mad and start asking questions.

It had so not been Dean’s idea to investigate the idiotic rumors of the haunted warehouse down in Ohio. No, Dean had said it sounded like crap, but Sam, in his _infinite_ wisdom, had declared they were going just in case. So they had, and yes, they’d investigated, and Sam had decided that he needed to go check out a weird noise he’d heard up in the rafters, so he of the college degree had climbed up a rickety and rusted set of stairs to check it out.

Dean really didn’t think it took a college degree to remember that you were a giant, and that very old, rusted things sometimes _gave way_ when heavy weights were placed on them.

When the source of the noise had flown right at his face—oh, the case of the warehouse haunted by the ghosts of bitchy pigeons, awesome, Sam—he’d stumbled backwards and the shaky catwalk he’d been on had decided it had had enough. The whole thing hadn’t collapsed _on_ him, luckily, but it had essentially snapped in half and he’d gone down, flailing like a spaz, and even Dean had heard that absolutely _sickening_ crack when he’d hit the cement floor left-leg-first.

He absolutely could not _believe_ that his stupid kid brother had gotten a compound fracture on a _dud hunt_.

The doctor had thrown around a bunch of big words, of course, telling him exactly where he’d broken it and how long he’d be laid up, but fuck that—Sam had a broken leg and was immobile for six weeks. That was the long and short of it, and it was _stupid_ because _Sam_ was stupid. Only funny thing to come out of this was that Cas had been doing his ample best to bubble-wrap Sam and keep him in a box for the duration of his cast-wearing days. But even that wasn’t funny anymore, because now Sam wasn’t stuck with the little bastard. _Dean_ was. _Thanks, Sam._

Oh yes. Thank you so much, Sam. Sam had been the one to tell Dean that Bobby’d found a new case, and Sam had been the one to suggest that he go check it out. And most of all, Sam had been the one to suggest that he take Cas with him. Dean wasn’t stupid—he knew Sam was doing it to get that fussy moron away from him, because he really didn’t think the bubble wrap part of Cas’s care-taking was amusing at all (because he had no sense of humor). But Dean had agreed—‘sides, he’d been sick of staring at Sam’s worthless ass for three weeks. He wanted to get out of the house anyway, and a case sounded good. At the time, he hadn’t thought anything of it—he and Sam had taken Cas on hunts before, and Bobby himself had dragged Cas along for a few as well, so he knew he was a decent sub-hunter when it came to duo-hunting. It’d been five years—he was getting damn good, was the truth, and at a surprisingly fast pace.

Prepping for the hunt had been uneventful. Packing up to head out had been routine. The drive to Indiana had been positively boring. And then Dean had pulled into the parking lot of his hotel of choice. He’d just pulled the keys out of the ignition when it had hit him.

Cas. Oh, _fuck_.

_Cas._

He’d stared in horror at Cas, who had just looked back, confused.

He—no. He could not do that. There was _no way in hell_ he could go in there with Cas in tow and ask for a hotel room. For _one_ hotel room. Where they would both be sleeping for up to a week.

Alone.

The last word had popped into his head unbidden, and at that he’d ordered Cas to _stay the fuck where he was_ and not move an inch. Upon being given such a direct order, Cas had obeyed, sitting patiently while Dean had shakily gone into the front desk and asked for one room, almost stumbling over asking for a double, because _fuck_ , what if the guy checking them in spotted the _dude_ sitting in the seat out in the Impala? Why hadn’t he told Cas to duck down or something?

It was one thing to be smirked at and accused of all that gay shit that wasn’t true when he checked into a room with his brother, ‘cause he was just his brother and he knew better so he didn’t care. But not with Cas. _Never_ with Cas. Because—because—

Because he _did stuff_ with Cas.

He’d rushed Cas into the hotel room as quickly as possible, throwing some bags at him and telling him to get his ass inside before running in and praying to whatever powers there were that nobody saw them. Right then, he should’ve known that this was gonna be a bad deal. He should’ve called it quits, despite the fact that he _never_ called it quits on a hunt. But…well, they’d settled in and started researching and going around asking questions and Dean had gotten focused. He’d buried himself in business and he’d been able to ignore any nasty insinuations his stupid traitor brain might try to make.

The first day, anyway.

That night, he’d gotten ready for bed, flopping down on his own and getting under the blankets just as Cas came wandering out after his two-hour shower—something he always did when he’d come with Sam and Dean on hunts, taking advantage of endless hot water without Bobby hollering at him for wasting it. Dean had glanced up and seen him—

And what the _fuck_ was that?! His stomach had twisted, little sparks of heat there, just at the sight of Cas with a towel around his waist and nothing else, his bare chest still a little wet, his hair standing up in wet spikes, and there it had happened again, that one thought.

_Alone. Just me and Cas. All alone._

He’d immediately rolled over and wrapped himself up tightly in his sheets and blankets, squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself to fall asleep as quickly as possible. He hadn’t, of course—and fuck _everything_ , he’d woken up hard the next morning. And fuck everything with a side of in-the-eye-socket, Cas had been awake before him, puttering around the room doing God knew what. So Dean had been forced to just sit there and pretend to be asleep until his hard-on had subsided. He’d immediately thrown himself back into the case, because when he was working, he _wasn’t_ thinking stupid shit like that.

But he couldn’t work on the case 24/7. Every time they had even a minute of downtime, his mind circled right back around to the same goddamn thing—and every goddamn time, there was that tiny flutter in his stomach and he’d find himself glancing surreptitiously at Cas and some deranged part of him would immediately think, _Hey, wouldn’t it be great to tap that? All alone, Dean!_

Jerking himself back to the present, Dean angrily shucked his clothes and set them on the toilet tank after turning on the shower and waiting for it to heat up.

That thought and those _ideas_ kept creeping up on him and it was driving him batshit. So _what_ if they were alone. It wasn’t like they’d never been alone before. There had been times when Bobby and Sam were out running errands and Cas and Dean were back at home base. Did anything happen then? _No._ Okay, it did that one time, back in the early days when they kind of made out in the backseat of the Impala. But that didn’t count! Everything had been… _new_ and crap, and it had been an accident as much as anything. And anyway, they’d stopped as soon as Dean had heard Bobby’s truck pull into the driveway (stopped, meaning Dean nearly threw himself through the back windshield trying to get away from Cas). He’d never had this insane _urge_ like this ever.

_That’s ‘cause there was always a risk of getting caught._

He yanked the shower curtain back and jumped in, growling irritably to himself.

Really, Dean was pretty sure he knew exactly what was going on. He was entering his fifth year of what was essentially celibacy. Yeah, he and Cas…fooled around sometimes, and Cas could give a pretty good handjob when Dean let him, but that was just it—it was a _handjob_. It wasn’t _sex_. And since he wasn’t actually _having_ sex, he was getting teased something fierce. He’d get lots of kissing and rolling around on a bed and get touched and touch back and then…nothing. Just some mutual jerking-off. And it didn’t happen very often to begin with.

Jesus, he was so fucking _horny_ and couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it.

He scrubbed fiercely at his hair, scowling. It really wasn’t helping the hunt, going through it in this weird mood. He just—dammit, he really missed sex sometimes, and he just happened to be missing it now. But what could he do? Go out and pick up some chick? Pfft—no.

He huffed, shaking his head a little bit as he rinsed the suds out of his hair and feeling a little stupid. He could just do what he always did when he got all hot and bothered and had no outlet—and may as well do it here.

Dean ignored the mild discomfort he felt, knowing he was about to crack one off with Cas out there, but he didn’t know about it and never would. Door was locked, and Cas was researching. He’d beat it if he wanted to—done it enough times with Sam only one wall away from him, anyway. Hell, once did it right there with him in the room when Sam was asleep. If Sam couldn’t stop him, he sure as fuck wasn’t gonna let Cas stop him either. He needed to stop thinking these things, so he’d just…relieve the pressure a bit.

He closed his eyes as he started soaping up his washcloth, scrubbing his body down and leaning against the tile. A brunette was the first thing that popped into his head, green eyes, and she was a c-cup if he ever saw one. That’d do it.

Dean took his time pulling her shirt off. Mmm—soft and slender, just how he loved it, and her bra was pink with little lacy edges. She had a coy smile, and he liked that, too. Oh, so she wanted to take the bra off _for_ him? He was not about to deny a lady. Oh yeah, her tits—sweet handfuls of perfection, that’s what they were, and Dean reached down to help his boner along the rest of the way, loosely stroking himself until he was completely hard. Now the fun could begin.

Leaning his head back, he could almost feel the way her fingers slid up under his shirt, taking the fabric with them, and the way her tits pressed against his bare chest when she stepped into his arms, her nipples hard and just begging to be teased. He was already reaching up to cup her boobs, and he heard her sigh. Oh, bed? Yep, that sounded good. He was on his back and she was draped across him, kissing every single sweet spot he loved, her fingers resting in the grooves of his ribs, and he reached down to twine his fingers her messy hair when she kissed right at the top of his jeans. She didn’t waste any time down there, though, already coming back up to suck softly at his pulse point on his neck, and his grip on his prick tightened, the soap on his fingers slick and the water hot.

Mmm—good, she was good, and he could almost feel the way she licked behind his ear, and he loved the way she tasted when she kissed him again with lips that were a little chapped as he forced his hands inside her jeans, gripping tightly at that sweet ass, soft fingers stroking up his sides and touching his ribs, and he ground against his hard-on and—

His eyes flew open. For a single second, he sat there, horrified that his imaginary chick had a dick. And then he realized what had happened.

_Goddammit, Cas!_

Angrily, he reached for the soap again, working up a fresh lather.

This was not the first time his fantasies had been invaded by that fucking angel. Far from it—which was a horrible fact of his life now. First time it had happened, his boner had shriveled up so fast he’d wondered if he’d ever get it up again. But no, since then he’d—he’d come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t help but think of Cas sometimes, because he really _could_ give a good handjob and knew every single thing Dean liked down there, and it was all Dean was getting these days anyway, so it wasn’t like it was his fault.

But he didn’t _want_ to think of Cas right now! Cas was the whole reason he was jerking off in the shower in the first place, because he was so hard up for sex that he was thinking about—doing stuff with him in a hotel room! He wanted to go back to Tracy—he’d just decided she was a Tracy. Shutting his eyes again, he tried to recapture the mood, but the second she opened her eyes he knew it was ruined—because her eyes were blue.

Growling, his hand still on his cock, he briefly pondered just giving up and getting out and going back out there to sleep it off. But no, he had a nasty feeling about what would happen if he did that—that he’d go to bed and have a fucking _wet dream_ in the same room as Cas, and he just _knew_ Cas would be in it. It was bad enough he’d had a wet dream about—about _Cas_ once or twice (and they involved way, _way_ more than he wanted to think about ever doing with that fucking _dude_ ). But to have one right there next to Cas, with Cas awake and hearing all of the happy noises he’d undoubtedly be making? _Not happening._

Dean needed to get off. And he couldn’t get off to Tracy. He could do his best, but just knew that no matter what she’d just keep turning into Cas.

Fine. _Fine._ Cas wanted to keep intruding on his private time? Okay—if that’s the way he wanted it, he’d give it to him. And—maybe it’d calm him down. The tiny part of him that kept hinting that he wasn’t _just_ horny, but that he was actually friggin’—was friggin’ horny for that _dude_ out there (and that, as always, sounded like Sam) suggested it might help. _Fuck you_ , he thought, setting the soap down and grabbing himself again.

Tracy was Cas now and she had turned into Cas way, way too easily. He shrugged that off, swallowing hard, concentrating on the half-lidded blue eyes he could see above him. Cas’s mouth was on his, hot and insistent. Stupid angel was so damned pushy in bed sometimes, even in his damned head. His hands were warm, skimming up his sides, and his mouth followed his fingers, kissing every single spot that Tracy had kissed, and Dean was disgruntled to realize that that no, that was not the case—it had always been Cas kissing him in the first place and he knew it.

His fist moved faster when he turned the tables in his mind’s eye; Cas beneath him, flushed with his lips parted, and watching eagerly as Dean unzipped his jeans for him, and he was wriggling out of them, and somehow things fast-forwarded a little and now Cas was pushing Dean’s own pants off of his hips. _Why_ was he always in such a hurry? Holding it off, he could feel one of Cas’s hands in his hair as Dean licked and nibbled across his skinny chest, all the way down to his soft stomach, and he sucked the skin there hard enough to leave a mark, and Cas liked it. He could tell, because he could hear those little noises he made. Back up he went, and when he pressed his body down against Cas, rubbing his hips against him and breathing against his hammering pulse, Cas moaned his name.

Dean could feel his heart beating harder, and the fingers on his free hand flexed against the tile of the shower when Cas’s skilled fingers were suddenly slipping beneath his shorts, and he timed it so well, timed his pumping fist with Dean’s thrusts, just like he always did because Cas was the fastest goddamned learner Dean had ever been with. He turned his head to the side, the steam of the shower almost like Cas’s hot breath against his neck, and he could hear Cas groan when Dean reached into his boxers and seized him in return.

He kept his hand moving in reality and his fantasy, panting now, and he could almost feel it, so much hot skin against his, _Cas_ against him, both of them thrusting in time, Cas’s fingers digging into his shoulder, and he didn’t care anymore because it was _Cas_ , and he could feel his balls tightening and, jerking hard and fast, he pictured it as clearly as he could—Cas, rapturous and shaking, moving under him, and then he opened his eyes and _looked_ at him.

Dean came with a grunt, gritting his teeth as he kept going, drawing it out as long as he could, seeing _him_ , seeing _Cas_ , _feeling_ Cas, fuck, _fuck_ yes—

Seconds later, he was leaning against the shower wall, his eyes still closed, breathing heavily, letting the shower spray wash away all evidence of his Alone Time. _God…_

He allowed himself a couple minutes to just enjoy the post-orgasmic looseness, the way his knees felt a little trembly, the way his eyes wouldn’t open, the way everything was just… _relaxed_ , and all of the tension oozed out of him and he was _blissfully_ calm and had not a single desire to get his hands on Cas or anything else. He sucked in a breath and let it out in a long exhale, savoring how, for the moment, everything was great.

Dean knew it wouldn’t last, though, so he heaved himself away from the wall and rubbed himself down briefly, making sure he had no trace of his little flute solo left on him, and then slammed the water off, grabbing a towel as he stepped out of the tub. He dried off quickly and then got dressed in his old clothes before rubbing fiercely at his hair, knowing it was now sticking up in all kinds of little wet points but way beyond caring. Then he grabbed the doorknob, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the motel room.

Looking at Cas so soon after fucking _masturbating_ to him was not in the cards, so he didn’t, taking great pains to make sure he wasn’t even in his peripheral vision. He just charged over to his bed and flopped down onto it, not bothering to get under the covers. He was a little concerned Cas would try to talk to him, but his concerns turned out to be unwarranted—Cas said nothing, just kept at whatever he was doing on his computer, his fingers slow on the keys like they always were. Dean shifted around in bed, trying to get more comfortable, his eyes determinedly closed.

Okay. That was better. He was…calmer. No sick urges to jump Cas, no pent-up horny, just…yeah. He had a handle on it. And if later on it happened again, he would just…do it again, he supposed. But it wasn’t _gonna_ happen again, dammit. He wouldn’t let it.

A thump sounded at the foot of the bed, and despite the fact that he’d not wanted to look, he couldn’t help it—he cracked open one eye and glanced down, and then both eyes were open and he just stared.

Cas was digging around in the mini-fridge. _Bent over_ , his ass waving in the air, digging around in the mini-fridge.

He sat up shortly after, kicking it closed with one foot, and then strolled over to his bed and bent over again, his shirt riding up as he did, and Dean’s mouth went suddenly dry as he was afforded a look at the bare flesh of the small of his back as well as his firm ass now. He pulled his bag out from where he’d stashed it and came back with those stupid allergy pills he was always taking, and he tucked the bag back under the bed as he twisted the cap off of the bottle of water he had in his hand so he could take his medicine. Then he just easily crossed the room and sat back down, stretching his neck a little by leaning his head back, exposing the line of his throat as he popped his neck, and then he tossed down his allergy meds and washed them down with a swig of water. And then he saw Cas’s tongue slip out and lick across his lips as he set his drink down on the table, completely unaware of Dean watching him the whole time.

Dean buried his face in his pillow, his eyes squeezed shut.

He was gonna kill that stupid fucking angel.


	2. The Sky is Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s frustration comes to a head.

_December 11, 2017_

Dean turned off the engine, pulling out the keys and gingerly opening the door with his muck-crusted hand, trying not to let too much of the dried gunk drop off onto the floor.

God, he hated it when a hunt wound up taking him into all kinds of wet and nasty places filled with all kinds of shit, ‘cause _he_ always wound up wet and nasty and _covered_ in all kinds of shit.

Oh, well—at least this time he had the satisfaction that he wasn’t the only one, he reflected as he got out of the car, and an equally filthy Cas got out too and followed Dean to the door of the room.

All in all, this hadn’t been the worst hunt he’d been on, getting dunked in muddy water aside. Having an ex-angel on the job was all kinds of handy; the minute they arrived at the recently renovated house in Bedford, Indiana, that was the location of a sudden string of grisly deaths, Cas could see that they had a ghost on their hands.

At least that narrowed down the search, even if they still had to go through the usual round of research and interviews to find out who or what it was. But even that hadn’t taken too long; turned out that the previous owner had been Komalat Naoson, a little old man from Thailand who’d been robbed, dragged down into the old basement, and beaten to death some twenty years ago. He’d been the last owner, and the house had been empty ever since; in the last year, though, someone had bought it, fixed it up (despite some nasty accidents and one death among the work crews), and then put it up for rent—and both new tenants had promptly died under suspicious and violent circumstances.

So the two of them went out to the local boneyard, dug up what was left of Naoson, and sent his bones up in smoke.

Sometimes Dean wondered why they bothered—because when was it ever that simple?

Afterwards, he and Cas went back to the house, and Cas had barely had enough time to yell out a warning before they were both being tossed around by one very pissed and totally-still-there spirit and had had to high-tail it out of there.

After some more reading and a few calls to Bobby and Sam, they figured out that they were dealing with a specific type of Thai ghost called a Phi Tai Hong, which was created when the victim of violent death was tied to the place they died. And it couldn’t just be burned; it had to be exorcised.

That was a little more trouble; they had to find the right Buddhist incantations and such to send it, not to mention Luster Water—special Buddhist holy water blessed by a Buddhist monk and with lotus blossoms and shit in it. Dean had initially been pissed as hell—where the fuck were they supposed to get that?

Wonder of wonders, there was actually a Buddhist temple about an hour away, north of Bloomington, Indiana, and with just a few half-lies, they were able to get some of the water. Armed with that and the incantations that Bobby had supplied, they went back to the house.

And because God hated them, of course the basement where Naoson had been killed and where the ritual needed to be performed was flooded with two feet of freezing, muddy water.

Just like pretty much every vengeful spirit ever, Naoson wasn’t about to go quietly, and, in true ghost-style, he commenced throwing stuff around—including Dean and Cas. Their paper with the incantations had been soaked immediately, but luckily Cas had already memorized it, so he started reciting it and began flinging luster water while Dean hauled himself up from the mucky floor where he’d landed. Naoson had gone for Cas then, picking him up and slamming him into the wall before dropping him face first into the water.

Didn’t matter if he was Thai, though—there was no spirit that could take a shotgun full of rock salt, and that had managed to keep him away from Cas for long enough for Cas to stand up, muddy, dripping, and clutching his shoulder where it’d been slammed into the wall, and finish Naoson off.

A huge fucking mess? Sure—but in the end, it’d only taken them three days. A very tidy hunt, really. Muddy water aside. And Dean was glad it was done faster than he’d expected it to be—because that meant they could _leave_.

Once Dean managed to wrestle the hotel key out of his soaked pocket, he got the door open and led the charge back into the room, going over to his bed and shoving his hunting bag underneath it as usual before kneeling down to work off his wet, creaking boots. He heard Cas closing and locking the door before stashing his own knapsack, and when Dean looked up he saw him plonk down on the desk chair and shrug out of his jacket, rubbing his shoulder and rotating his arm again.

“That still buggin’ you?” Dean asked.

“No,” Cas replied. “Just trying to make sure it won’t later.”

Dean returned his eyes on the shoe he was trying to unlace. “Well, if you want my advice, hit the shower. The hot water will go a long way to help with that. ‘Sides, you look like you lost a fight with a mud wrestler who had a scat fetish.” 

“I don’t think that you’re any cleaner than I am,” Cas said—it would have been a sharp retort from anyone else, but from Cas, it just sounded vaguely perplexed—and Dean glanced up in time to see him bending down to take off his shoes.

“Yeah, I’ll, uh, shower after you. You hit it first.” Dean kicked his boots away from him. When he turned, he saw Cas getting up from the chair and peeling off his shirt with a flash of bare skin as he headed for the bathroom, and Dean immediately went back to staring at the wall in front of him, not moving until he heard the door close.

 _What the fuck, brain?_ Dean growled to himself, getting up and looking for the remote. Clearly, this trip had been a very bad idea, because this right here was the worst. He’d already been plagued by those horrible thoughts that he and Cas were alone— _really_ alone—for the first time since…then, but this? This was the very limit. His stomach doing little nervous and excited twists and flutters at the idea of Cas getting in the shower—

 _Sonofabitch!_ No. No, and more no. It wasn’t allowed, and it wasn’t _done_. Since when did he even get ideas like that?! He’d never once considered anything like that when they were at Bobby’s. ‘Course, at Bobby’s there was always the threat of getting caught, but that was definitely not the case here—

 _No!_ Dean was sick of this—of acting like some teenager who’d snuck his prom date into a hotel room that he’d managed to book with a fake I.D.

 _Well, that’s pretty much what you’ve_ done _. Fake I.D. and all._

Growling to himself, he stopped looking for the remote because there wasn’t anything he wanted to watch anyway. News was boring and depressing, he didn’t follow very many TV shows, and the few he did would just—make things worse—

He almost jumped when he heard the water start running in the bathroom. Good—now he’d jump in and jump out and he’d be done—

—except Cas was a shower hog. He _wouldn’t_ just be in and out.

_Shit._

This was stupid. This was _ridiculous_. This was all kinds of things and Dean couldn’t catalogue every single thing it was, but the one thing it _wasn’t_ was _good_. What the fuck was wrong with him?! He paced the room, agitated, trying anything and everything to not listen to and think about the uneven splashing he could hear from the bathroom, which meant Cas was actually in the shower now, and God knew when he’d be out again, meaning Dean would have to listen the whole time and just _think_ about it—

Dean stopped moving, staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

You know, that was a good question—what the fuck _was_ wrong with him? Dammit, he was a consenting adult. Cas was a consenting adult. They’d…done stuff before. What was wrong with this? And he was right, too—there _was_ no chance of being spotted by Bobby or Sam. For once, he didn’t _have_ to worry about being caught with his pants down. He was here in a no-tell motel, and they were eight hundred miles away, clueless and unable to walk in on him.

He was alone. _Alone_ alone.

With Cas.

His shirt was on the floor before he even realized that he’d taken it off, and he undid his jeans as he marched purposefully across the room to the closed door of the bathroom. He’d kicked off the last vestiges of his clothes before he grabbed the doorknob, twisting it and swinging the door wide open, and in one stride he’d reached the curtain, grabbed the edge and yanked it back—

And there was Cas, obviously startled, blinking rapidly and wiping water and suds out of his eyes, his hair sticking up in soapy spikes. Cas, all wet and naked in front of him.

Dean stared, frozen in place.

_Oh, fuck._

His resolve and determination and everything else he might have been feeling fled the second he laid eyes on all those bits of Cas he had never, _ever_ wanted to see.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes flew up to Cas’s face (thank God) at the sound of his voice. Cas was confused, yet completely unabashed, standing there as if he didn’t even know he was buck naked in front of him and _hadn’t_ noticed Dean looking at his junk—and also looking like he didn’t notice Dean was just as bare.

He couldn’t think—his brain was completely locked up. Unfortunately, his mouth was not.

“Scoot over,” he blurted out. “I—you were right, I wanna shower, too.”

He said it before he could stop himself. Oh, that was _stupid_. That was probably worse than his original inclination to just run back out the door, because Cas just blinked some more and then did what he was told, scooting over and even twisting the showerhead so they could both fit under there, the accommodating bastard.

He couldn’t run. That would look even worse. Just—

Dean forced his legs to move, to step into the tub, barely flinching when the hot water hit him, and tried to put as much distance between himself and the skinny naked dude right next to him.

This was horrible. This was the worst idea he’d ever had in his life, and he’d had some really bad ideas in his time. Grabbing the shampoo, he squeezed out a blob and worked it fiercely into his hair, trying to take the fastest shower on record. The only good thing about this was that Cas wasn’t facing him, keeping his back turned even as he edged a little closer to try and get further under the spray, which just made Dean back up even more to get the hell away from him.

Dammit, this shower was taking too long because he had all kinds of nasty crap in his hair, to the point that he had to grab the shampoo again for another go. Why did he have to do this? What made him think this was a good idea? What had he even been _planning_?! He certainly hadn’t been planning on reenacting _The Shawshank Redemption_! Just—why?! Why did he do stupid shit like this when he got around Cas, goddammit?!

See? Like now! Why did he just look behind him?!

Cas still had his back to him, and Dean guessed he had one of the washrags in his hand as he set the soap back on the dish next to him. He was moving, just leisurely rubbing himself down—geez, at that pace, no wonder he always used up Bobby’s hot water. Dean groped behind him for the soap as well, ignoring how his hand was shaking and concentrating fiercely on _not_ dropping the bar, but it wasn’t easy because his eyes had just been drawn unerringly to the way the water was running in little rivulets between Cas’s shoulder blades, down his spine, and lower—

Eager to get rid of the soap, he shoved it back in the soap dish and scrubbed viciously at himself with his own washrag, scooting even further way from Cas and struggling to ignore the little hot flutter that he’d felt right in the pit of his stomach.

Dean couldn’t even enjoy getting all that nasty crap off of him, like he always did after a hunt that left him filthy, because Cas was still next to him, and Dean couldn’t help it, he kept glancing over, seeing him there, and Dean’s migration into the far end of the shower had just made Cas scoot closer to get more of the water, leaning against the wall as he stood on one leg and scrubbed at his calf—why was he doing that, hadn’t he already done that?! What, did he feel it necessary to do everything _twice_?!

He rinsed out the rag he had, trying to rinse himself off without scooting back to the center of the shower because to do that would mean he’d have to scoot closer to Cas, but—

Dammit, what the hell? _Just scoot over and rinse off then you’re done_ , he snarled at himself, and he finally did, moving over and getting under the spray and reaching out to push Cas over, but the minute his hand made contact with him Cas turned a little and glanced over his shoulder, and Dean saw that brief, shy little look he got—fucking hell, Cas _knew_ the shy act drove him crazy, why was he doing that now?!

But Cas turned back around immediately after, and Dean just sat there, not looking away this time because the low simmer had been switched on in his gut and there was no way he could deny it now, not with the way Cas had stepped back and turned just enough to catch the spray and now was tilting his head, his eyes closed, and the water was running over his face to cling to his eyelashes and drip from his lips. Dean swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry even in the steam of the shower, and then he saw Cas step away from the water again to scrub at his arms, moving the soapy rag over his skin, and doing his best to reach over his shoulder and get what little he could reach of his back, and now the suds were running down his back in trails, tracing out his spine—

“Want me to do that?” It had happened again—the words were out of his mouth before he even realized it, and he knew his neck was turning red as Cas looked back at him again, confused as before.

“What?” he asked.

Dean swallowed. “Your back,” he clarified, taking some small consolation in the fact that his voice wasn’t _that_ choked, since he was already regretting blurting that out in the first place.

Cas blinked at him for a second or two—long enough for Dean to just want to curl up and die—until he finally said, “All right, if you want to—thank you.” And he held out the soapy rag for Dean.

Dean took it after a moment’s hesitation, snatching it as quickly as possible so Cas wouldn’t notice his hand was shaking slightly. Cas went back to staring at the wall, and Dean reached forward, keeping him at arm’s length as he brusquely scrubbed at his shoulders, soaping up the smooth side and then the branded side.

Okay, so charging into the shower in was now only the _second_ -worst idea he’d ever had. _This_ one was now in first place, because it did absolutely nothing to help him with his own issues right now because his hand occasionally made contact with Cas’s skin and it was hot and slick and wet and every little brush against him was like touching a live wire that sent a charge straight to his groin.

Dean sucked in a breath, closing his eyes a little and keeping his hand moving, and then he moved forward—shit, he came in here to—well, he still wasn’t sure, but dammit, this was _fine_. He could do this—just…okay, he had no idea what he could _just_ do. Just do _something_ that wasn’t sit like an idiot. He opened his eyes again, staring at the washrag as it moved, and applied a little more pressure as he slowed down, running over a spot he’d already done before moving lower.

Well, turns out he was right—it _was_ fine. Just staring at the way the rag ran over Cas’s skin, he began settling into the easy, even pattern he’d done before. He dragged the sudsy rag up Cas’s back, trying to slow it down more, and then going back up to his shoulders, bringing his other hand up to rub with the rag, his fingers working the tense spot he could feel near Cas’s neck. The way his hand was sliding over Cas’s skin was easy to concentrate on, too, because it helped him forget that he was doing it to a guy. He unconsciously took a step closer, tracing the soap trails down Cas’s spine that he’d been eyeing earlier, following them down and then going back up, feeling every contour under the cloth, and then started back down after edging to the side, pressing gently when he felt another knot of muscle that needed easing. He was damn near mesmerizing himself at this point, watching his hands’ steady, almost rhythmic progress, Cas’s flesh warm and soft where he brushed it, and this, _this_ is what he’d wanted to do, and he slid the rag lower—

And that’s when he realized Cas hadn’t moved.

Dean’s hands faltered as he pulled himself away from what he was doing and paid closer attention to Cas himself—no, he wasn’t moving. At all. He was just standing there peacefully, his head bowed a little, exactly the way he always stood.

The warm heat that had been unwinding in his chest and stomach started going cold, the flutters turning to uncomfortable twists. Shit—he’d—goddammit, he couldn’t even blame any of this on Cas, this had been _his_ idea, it was all on him, trying to throw down some moves on Cas and it wasn’t working, Cas didn’t want to— _fuck_ , this was a mistake, coming in here like this—no, he never should’ve even brought Cas on the goddamn hunt in the first place—!

A tiny cough snapped Dean out of his growing frenzy of horrified and embarrassed panic. “Dean?” Cas’s low voice was rough, even for him, and a little breathy and…shaky? “Are—are you done…yet?”

Dean blinked.

And just like that, the fire was back, and he felt himself grinning in relief and something close to vicious glee, because that little bitch had been _faking_ indifference this whole time and now he was gonna get it.

“Nope,” he replied easily, and this time he didn’t miss how Cas’s shoulders tensed, like he was steeling himself, and though the noise of the shower almost drowned it out, he could hear the tiny, pained sigh Cas gave. His stomach giving a little quiver of anticipation, Dean reached over to grab the bar of soap to get the rag good and lathered again before he went back at it.

He didn’t bother starting fast this time or putting up any pretense—his motions over Cas were slow and deliberate, and he had both hands on him, gentle in some places and firm in others, only this time it was different. He could _see_ what he’d been missing before—the way Cas would twitch a little when he pressed his fingers in a certain way, the way the taut line of his shoulders didn’t seem to ease up, the way he _wasn’t_ standing the relaxed way he always did, because did Cas honestly think Dean didn’t see how his hands were balling up into fists? Cas seemed to think he was fooling somebody. Dean idly wondered why he was even bothering to pretend that he was fine, and then found himself wondering if maybe he was mistaken. Maybe Cas wasn’t faking it—maybe he seriously didn’t get it. _Idiot_ , he thought to himself, deliberately brushing the rag right over his tailbone.

After reaching up with his free hand to grip where Cas’s neck met his shoulder, he stepped even closer and scrubbed up his side, shifting his fingers on Cas’s neck until he could feel his rapid pulse, and he liked what he felt. He ducked his head a little, his mouth close to Cas’s ear as he rubbed his thumb leisurely over the nape of his neck, enjoying the way he trembled. He could hear Cas taking very deep and deliberate breaths, but those stuttered when he moved away from his back, dragging the cloth up over his shoulder and down his arm now as his thumb still slid slowly up and down his neck.

And _still_ Cas wasn’t moving. _Seriously, Cas?_ Yeah, he definitely didn’t get it. _Well—let’s just find out how long it takes to make him take the hint_ , he smirked to himself.

He slid the rag slowly back up Cas’s arm, bringing it in over his shoulder until he drew it up behind his neck. He splayed both his hands across his shoulders, the cloth between them, curling his fingers around to skitter over Cas’s collar bones before digging gently into the tension that radiated through them. Cas’s head bowed even further, and Dean could see the way his cheeks were flushed—he’d bet his .45 that it wasn’t just from the heat of the water. And he _certainly_ didn’t miss the way Cas was biting his lower lip before he turned his head away from Dean’s gaze.

Dean dragged the cloth ever-so-slowly down every bump of Cas’s spine, and he could feel his quick breathing in the movements of his ribs. He slid one hand around and over them, his fingers making trails in the lather, and then moved downward; he felt more than heard the way Cas’s breath hitched. Okay, if he thought he was fooling anybody at this point, he was even dumber than Dean thought. When he slid his other hand the rest of the way down his back, he dropped the rag with a wet _flump_ , curling his empty fingers so that they just barely skimmed along the top of his ass, and Dean’s grin was one of victory when Cas’s head fell back again and he saw the way Cas released his lip as his mouth opened in a tiny gasp.

Really, Dean was starting to get a little impressed, here; he always spent so much time trashing Cas for being so handsy and not being able to take things slow, but here it turned out that Cas could actually manage a pretty damned impressive level of restraint. A tiny smirk twisted his mouth. Well, he was gonna see what he could do about _that_.

Dean cupped his hands to scoop up the dwindling lather on Cas’s skin and drew it down, one hand on his stomach and the other on his side and pulled his fingers across him in thick soapy trails. The tip of his finger skated around the circle of his navel while his other hand slid low on the side of his hip, almost to the top of his thigh, and then he dragged them both to the same place, low and tight on his hips, drawing his fingers up the wet lines of his hipbones. There was a small thump, and Dean looked up from where he’d been watching Cas’s trembling mouth over his shoulder to see that his hand had come up sharply to brace against the tiled wall, his fingers rigid and shaking. Dean chuckled quietly to himself at the way Cas seemed to be hanging on for dear life. _Ha. You got the peaches, but_ I _got the cream_. He kept up the slow, steady motions of his hands, caressing up his sides and then around to splay over his back, his thumbs meeting in the middle. Then it was up over his shoulder blades to curl around his neck again, leaving one palm pressed against the wild fluttering of Cas’s pulse and letting the other drop down again, just lightly touching him, tracing the column of his spine with the tip of one finger. Dean paused only for a moment at the small of his back before continuing downward, pulling away at the last moment, but not quite enough to not just barely brush down the cleft of his ass. Then he was going back up, the backs of his fingers skating up Cas’s spine again—

The noise Cas suddenly made as his hand visibly spasmed against the wall made him pause, but then he heard Cas talking, his voice strangled and pleading, “I—Dean, you—”

And that was enough—he didn’t really know or care what Cas was about to ask him, but he didn’t get to finish anyway, because Dean closed the distance between them, his palms sliding through the foam on his hips as he reached around him, pressing his chest flush against Cas’s back, and when Dean’s fingers easily found Cas’s dick—yep, rock hard, just as he thought—Cas’s words just died in his throat and all that came out was a shocked _guh_.

Cas’s hips jerked violently against his hand even as he stumbled forward, and Dean used the momentum to maneuver him to the side, and in a single second he had Cas against the wall, keeping his own body up against his. Cas had turned his head, his hands and his cheek pressed against the tile, and Dean saw he clearly had no idea what had just hit him, but Dean wasn’t in any mood to let him figure things out and was already moving his hand, the remaining lather on his hand working just great for his needs. Cas was certainly enjoying it.

Actually, that was a bit of an understatement. Now that Cas finally seemed to get it ( _‘bout time, witless wonder_ ), all that pent-up horniness pretty much exploded out of him. He’d flung one hand back to grope around until he’d found Dean’s neck and he was clinging for all he was worth, and he’d been reduced to helpless moaning as he rocked his hips in time with Dean’s hand as best he could, mashed like he was against the wall. ‘Course, that made Dean’s victory a little hard to savor, because the little sounds Cas made never failed to turn Dean on bad, but also with the way they were mashed together, every time Cas moved, Dean’s own hard-on got pressed against Cas’s ass, over and over, and _Jesus_ , that was making it hard to concentrate.

Dean pressed his face against Cas’s neck, loving all the noise Cas was making and loving the fact that he didn’t feel the need to tell him to shut the fuck up because there was nobody downstairs that could hear him. Dean slid his free around Cas’s waist until his arm was looped around him, his grip tight and pinning Cas against his chest, his teeth clamped down on the wet skin of his neck, and he just listened to Cas’s quick little pants over the rush of the water that kept them both hot and slick. He opened his eyes and tilted his head back a bit and saw Cas, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open, droplets of water running in tiny trails down his skin, and that was just a bit too much because Cas was having all the fun here and the way his own prick kept sliding along the furrow of Cas’s ass—

Cas didn’t have time to protest when Dean suddenly let him go, because he just grabbed him by the arms and spun him around, slamming him back against the wall but facing him now, and he muffled Cas’s grunt of surprised pleasure when he was kissing him, mouth open and tongue seeking, his hands skimming down to his hips and then back up his sides before reaching down and getting a double handful of angelic butt. He kept one hand where he was while using the other to reach between them, grabbing his own dick and maneuvering— _fuck_ yes, there, right between Cas’s thighs—

Dean kept one hand on his hip and the other on his ass to keep him as still as he could, his thrusts short and quick as he had his own body pressed tightly against Cas, as close as he could get, and Cas’s hands were buried in his hair as he kissed back, panting as hard as Dean was as he trembled and shivered with every movement Dean made against him. It really didn’t matter that it wasn’t the same as sex with a woman; what mattered was that it was hot and it was wet and it was tight and it was _Cas_ , holy _God_ , it was just _Cas_ , and Dean couldn’t help but groan as he moved faster, shuddering when one of Cas’s hands gripped his ass, and his breath was hot against his mouth as they moved.

Dean wasn’t necessarily surprised when his cock accidentally slipped out from between Cas’s thighs when he pulled back too far, but he was seriously pissed off because _sonofabitch_ , _not now_ , but his hips had already thrust forward and Cas gasped and jumped and Dean couldn’t help but echo the sentiment when they collided, but all Dean could think of was getting off, so why not—he didn’t bother trying to get back to where he had been, just reached down between them and started moving again, keeping their dicks pressed together with his hand. He heard a thump when Cas hit his head against the tile in his thrashing, but he didn’t seem to care, he was thrusting wildly against Dean, and Dean was pushing back just as hard, the pent-up frustration and mindless, senseless _want_ he’d felt for the past three days rushing him forward to what he wanted, what he’d wanted this _whole fucking time_ , and Cas’s fingers were joining his own, keeping them tightly pressed together with the wet slide of skin against skin, and he recognized the way Cas’s quiet moans were getting louder so he moved faster, crushing Cas against the wall. Cas’s free hand flailed for purchase and scrabbled wildly at his shoulders, his fingers digging in hard against his flesh, and Dean heard his name, like he always did, low and guttural and moaned in agonized ecstasy, and he could feel Cas coming, hot and sticky between them, but it didn’t matter, because just a few more— _please_ —

“Fuck— _fuck!_ ” he groaned, slamming a hand on the wall next to Cas’s head as the horribly wonderful tightening pressure on his balls suddenly released and he came, keeping himself moving, keeping them _both_ moving, because he didn’t want it to stop, didn’t want to stop hearing Cas whimpering in tandem with his own groans, didn’t want _any_ of it to stop—

But, of course, it did, and all too soon they were both still, Dean’s sagging weight probably the only thing keeping Cas pinned upright against the wall of the shower. Reality took its time filtering back in through his hazy brain, and the first thing he became aware of was hot spray of water still hammering down on them from the shower head. Sluggishly, he raised his head to see it had gotten ridiculously steamed up in here. He supposed that they should turn off the water, but he didn’t want to move; he was perfectly happy to sit like this for a while, with Cas just limply hanging onto him as he struggled to breathe again, because it never failed to entertain him, listening to Cas try to recover from whatever awesome Dean had unleashed on him.

Well, as content as he would be to just sit there and mash Cas until the water ran cold, he was not so content to sit in his own jizz, and even less content to sit in someone else’s. He pushed himself away from the wall, only staggering a little and not bothering to hide his snort of amusement when Cas barely managed to stop himself from sliding down the wall when his supporting weight suddenly vanished. Dean turned towards the spray, angling it so he wouldn’t get it too bad on his junk and wrinkling his nose a little as he wiped his hands down his front and his thighs, washing the gooey grossness away. After grabbing the bar of soap again and giving himself a perfunctory scrub and rinse under the water, he set the soap down and turned back to smirk at Cas, who was still leaning heavily against the wall and staring at him, clearly dazed and trying to figure out exactly what just happened. _Another one bites the dust._

“Wash up, dude,” he said briskly, and Cas blinked at him before slowly easing himself away from the wall. As he turned Dean was unable to resist reaching out and smacking him right on the ass, though he did manage to not burst out laughing when Cas gave a very satisfying jump. After that, he just yanked the curtain back and hopped out, grabbing a towel as he went, rubbing himself quickly off and then knotting it around his waist as he opened the door and sauntered out into the other room.

Dean had to pause once he shut the door behind him, just standing still with his head leaned back and his eyes closed, savoring the way his legs still felt a little weak, the tension still oozing out of him like it always did when he was post-orgasmic. It was particularly nice this time because _damn_ , it had been a while since he’d had blue balls that bad. These past three days were a reminder of why he always made it a point never to let himself go high and dry. Heaving a very satisfied sigh, he opened his eyes and started forward when his feet brushed against something on the floor. Glancing down, he saw he’d just gotten a bit tangled up in his discarded shorts.

And a short distance from them were his filthy, wadded-up jeans. And right behind them was his muddy shirt. And there were his socks and shoes. A little trail of bread crumbs for him to follow back so he wouldn’t forget the way.

…forget the way he’d just leapt out of his clothes and jumped Cas in the shower.

He stared down at his clothes, and this time _real_ reality was filtering back in. He…he’d just torn all his clothes off and charged into the bathroom with the sole intention of _getting it on_ with Cas. This was no drunken accident, no unplanned fumble; this wasn’t him sitting down and getting turned on because Cas liked to pet him in the dark. No—he’d _meant_ to do it. Because for three days Dean had been getting more and more frustrated and wound up and just straight-up _horny_ —for Cas.

…and he’d gone and just had a sword-fight with him in the fucking shower.

_Son. Of. A. Bitch._

Pointlessly cinching the towel around his waist even tighter, he stomped across the room, snatching up his reeking clothes as he went and hating that same old dull heat that was spreading across the back of his neck. After accidentally throwing all of his clean clothes all over the floor trying to yank them out of his bag, he jammed the dirty ones away in the laundry bag before picking up the ones that he’d scattered everywhere, more eager than ever to just get dressed.

He didn’t realize he’d forgotten to dry himself off until he’d already wiggled his jeans halfway on. _Fuck it_ , he snarled to himself, jerking them on and furiously zipping up. He slid into his shirt after that, and was sitting on the bed pulling on his socks when he heard the water finally turn off in the bathroom. Just what the hell had Cas been doing in there? Reaching down for his boots, he yanked them on and knotted them tightly before standing and rubbing his hair down briefly with the towel he’d tossed on the bed.

Well, dressing quickly was a mistake, because now there was absolutely nothing to distract him from thinking about what he’d just done.

Jesus Christ—he’d just jumped Cas in the fucking shower! Even worse, he’d _wanted_ to! And he hadn’t just been blue-balling it—no, Cas had _gotten_ him that way! What the _fuck_ —for _three days_ he’d been getting hot and bothered by that little twerp! And then he finally just ran in there and—and _jumped_ on him! The growing urge to punch Cas in the face was a relief—better that than wanting to go _do_ him, and _dammit_ , just that thought made him twitch. No. That was crap. He didn’t want to—to _fuck_ Cas.

No—he just wanted to bump dicks with him in the shower, apparently.

_Shit!_

Dean jumped a mile when he heard the knob on the bathroom door rattle loudly, turning around in time to see Cas tottering out, barely holding his towel up with one hand where it was slung low around his hips, his flushed skin still glistening, his expression _still_ dazed, and the whole package made the sorry bastard look like he’d just been banged six ways from Sunday, which was stupid because he _hadn’t been_ , they’d just—they hadn’t _done_ much, why was he looking like that—?!

Whirling around, Dean went to fuss with his bag, needlessly rearranging the clothes he’d already put away and zipping it up before pacing back to his bed, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. He could hear Cas shuffling and rustling around behind him, looking for his clothes, and knew that the little nudist was probably taking his sweet time about getting dressed; Cas had no shame and it bugged the hell out of _everyone_. Oh, sure, he’d freak out and get embarrassed and flustered just sitting in a booth at a whorehouse but he’d parade around in Bobby’s front yard without a stitch on with no problems. Guess he’d had to find a _new_ way to blind everyone even if he was depowered. Couldn’t do it himself? Well, he’d just hang his dick out in the wind and make everyone want to tear their own eyes out of their heads _for_ him.

Dean stared firmly at the door until he heard the sound of a zipper—finally, he at least had his pants on. Risking his sanity, he glanced behind him over his shoulder and spotted Cas sitting on the edge of his bed. Yes, Cas had his jeans on, but still hadn’t put on a shirt. Dean stared, watching the way he shifted in bed as he shook out a T-shirt, following with his eyes the flicks of his fingers and the play of the muscles under his skin, and spotting the red mark on his shoulder where Dean had bitten him when he’d had him pinned.

He looked sharply away again, breathing hard through his nose. _What the fuck?_ That was—no, he was not allowed to get the hot twisties in his gut just from seeing evidence of what they’d done in the shower. He’d already done everything he…needed to do with Cas; his balls were no longer blue, so getting riled again was Not Allowed. They were headed home soon anyway, for Christ’s sake. He just needed to stop thinking about…whatever this was, because he couldn’t afford to. They were gonna pack up after a quick bite to eat and go back to Bobby’s, where he’d gladly settle back down into his usual routine of sneaking around and maybe sometimes accidentally winding up in Cas’s room without his pants, because that was familiar, and he could blame it all on Cas and wouldn’t feel this—this ridiculous—whatever the hell it was.

_Except you booked the motel for five days. You have the room for another night. You don’t have to go back to sneaking around just yet._

He stared blankly at the door, frozen in appalled disbelief at what his internal monologue had just said.

What— _what?!_ He’d—no! What the _hell_?! He couldn’t do that—no, he _wouldn’t_ do that, because goddammit, he didn’t _want_ to do that. Once was always enough, thank you very much. When had he ever asked for seconds at Bobby’s? Never, that’s right—and he wasn’t gonna go for it now, because that was out of the question. Besides, why did he even _want_ seconds?! Fucking hell, why did he _want_ Cas at all?! Just because they were alone for the first time ever far away from those nosy bastards and could be there for an _entire day_ , no interruptions, no risk of being caught—

Dean rushed for his coat. “I’m gonna go next door,” he said hurriedly, “grab something to eat, sandwiches sound good—uh, I’ll get ‘em, we eat, then head out.”

“All right,” was the relaxed reply he got, and _dammit_ , why did his middle have to get warm just from thinking about _why_ Cas sounded so goddamn serene?

Snatching the room key off the table and cramming it in his pocket, Dean fumbled his way out the door after slinging his coat on. The blast of cold air that smacked him in the face was a relief, seeing as a cold shower wasn’t an option at this point—in fact, showers weren’t an option at any point in the near future, because just thinking the word “shower” kept making him…feel weird. He didn’t even wait to hear if Cas locked the door behind him (though he would sock him good if he came back to find that he hadn’t). He just shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked briskly across the parking lot, ducking his head against the sharp gusts of freezing wind.

The door to the 7-11 _dinged_ insipidly when he yanked it open, and he managed a perfunctory nod to the cheerful greeting that the woman at the counter gave him. He couldn’t help the tiny sigh of relief when he saw he was the only person in here. Keeping his head down, he went straight back to where the cheap sandwiches were and grabbed four of them—two each turkey and ham. No way he was gonna watch Cas eat one of those nasty tunashit ones he was into, the smell made Dean wanna hurl; Cas could just eat a man’s sandwich and like it. He firmly tamped down the temptation to get a six-pack; Cas could only have one and that meant that Dean would have to drink five, and there was _no way_ he was gonna get any kind of buzz on around Cas right now. _No fucking way._ Instead, he went teetotaler and grabbed a Coke and a Mountain Dew. Why Cas was so into drinking something that looked like piss and tasted about the same was beyond Dean. After finally detouring through the chips and candy aisle to grab a big bag of Doritos and a handful of chocolate, he made his way up to the counter with his load.

“Lunch on the go?” the woman—Shirley, he saw from her nametag—said brightly.

Dean managed a smile. “Yeah—just grabbin’ something for the road,” he said, fumbling in his back pocket for his wallet.

“I love road trips,” she gushed. “This all for yourself, or do you have company?”

He nearly dropped his wallet, his head shooting up. What—how did she know—oh God, what was on him—!

 _Dude. Chill._ That was the Sam-voice that plagued him more often than not these days. _Two different drinks, four sandwiches, big bag of chips, bunch of candy bars. Think, idiot._

Forcing a shaky smile, he grunted out something that sounded vaguely like “me and a friend,” and he was already pulling out a twenty without thinking before he realized it. Internally swearing— _never blow hard cash when a fake card would do the trick, dammit_ —he passed her the twenty regardless. The card he was currently using was probably on its last leg, anyway.

Why was she looking at him like that? Was she—oh, shit, she was smirking at him. _Knowingly._ He hadn’t checked himself before he left—what did he look like? Was his mouth all bruised and red or something? Had Cas gotten leechy on him again and left a hickey on his jaw? Jesus Christ—thinking back on it, if Cas looked like he was just recovering from outrageous amounts of sex, who knew what _he_ looked like, and here he was in front of her—dammit, why wasn’t she hurrying up with his change?! This wouldn’t be taking so long if she’d stop _looking_ at him!

 _Finally_ she counted out the right bills and coinage for him, and he thrust out his hand for it, eager to get away from people who just seemed to know _way_ too much. Her hand was tipping, and he made the mistake of looking up at her face, and he saw the way she looked up at him from under her lashes. “Anything else you need?” she asked, slow and _insinuating_ —

After apologizing profusely for scattering change everywhere, he took the opportunity to duck down and pick up what had fallen on the floor just so he could hide the way his face was on fire and his stomach was twisting horribly. _Why—why did everybody seem to_ know _?!_ What the hell?! Anything else, his ass— _no_ , he didn’t need anything else, because dammit, nobody was supposed to _know_ there was a dude back in his motel room, what, did he have it tattooed across his forehead or something?!

His hand froze, hovering over the last dime on the floor as suddenly, he connected the dots.

…she was flirting with him.

A cute and friendly girl in a convenience store was flirting with him.

And he hadn’t noticed, because he was too busy thinking about…Cas.

He swelled with outrage. That son of a bitch just _cockblocked_ him!

Cock _blocked, indeed_ , the Sam-voice smirked.

He gave up on the dime as a lost cause when it squirted out of his fingers and rolled under the bench with the microwave. Getting back to his feet, he shoved his change back into his wallet and crammed it into his back pocket, managing what he thought was at least a halfway charming smile at Shirley as he grabbed his bags and walked as quickly as he could out of the store without looking like a complete idiot.

He was going to _murder_ Cas. Bad enough he was making him all—all _horny_ for him—no, now he was _messing up his game with women_!

He furiously opened the door—dammit, Cas had remembered to lock it, and now Dean didn’t have that as an excuse to punch him—and flung it open, kicking it shut once he was in. He all but slammed their lunch on the table nearby, his motions rough and jerky, and Cas drifted over to help set things out, obviously in blissful ignorance over Dean’s mood and that just pissed him off, too. If Cas was in la-la land and didn’t notice he was mad, he wouldn’t ask what was wrong with him and then Dean couldn’t yell at him and tell him to shut the fuck up and leave him alone.

Dean didn’t miss Cas’s pleased look when he saw his Mountain Dew, for as much as he loved the stuff, he didn’t get it that often because Bobby had the good sense to spend money on more important things, like Jack Daniels. Dean was tempted to take his food and eat on the other side of the room, but that would probably look even worse than eating across from Cas, so he grudgingly sat down at the table and grabbed two of the sandwiches and unwrapped them while Cas opened up the bag of chips.

He deliberately sat turned to the side so he wouldn’t have to face Cas, resting one elbow on the table as he chewed irritably. Cas still said nothing, which really shouldn’t have been all that surprising; he never did after they…did—what they did. But it didn’t matter—the silence was not any kind of relief today, because any amount of mellow he’d achieved by getting off earlier was already gone, replaced with that exact same fucking tension that had eaten him up for three days straight. Dammit—he so should not have gone into that shower, because now that was all he could think about.

Oh shit. He saw that—sure, Cas thought he was being sneaky, but no, Dean saw that. Just because he wasn’t facing him didn’t mean he didn’t see it. The way he would sometimes look up from his food when he thought Dean wasn’t watching—Dean knew it wasn’t intentional by now, but that didn’t make it any less maddening, that perfect combination of coy and Cas, all with that same fucking _look_ he always had, only—Jesus, how had Dean never noticed how bright his eyes were after they’d fooled around?

Well, that was easy—because Dean never stuck around long enough to find out. He either went right to sleep or just left after a game of slap-and-tickle, and this right here was a damn good reason to keep it that way. Every time he spotted Cas, he saw how content and satisfied and positively _sappy_ he looked, and it was simultaneously making him want to stick his finger down his throat and …reminding him why he looked like that in the first place.

And that there was literally nothing stopping him from doing it to him again.

Okay, that did it. He ate his lunch across from Cas, but he jumped to his feet and took his Snickers and his Twix with him—he could _not_ take it anymore, being that goddamn close to him and having to see the way he kept _looking_ at him. He paced the room, trying to keep far away from Cas, but it was just your typical motel room and there was only so far he could go and so many ways he could avoid looking at Cas short of retreating to a corner and sticking his nose in it, so he still had to see him. Especially when he finished eating his boring old dark chocolate Hershey bar and stood to clean up their trash, but the little douchetard had to go and stretch before he did, didn’t he, his hands reaching for the ceiling, and his shirt rode up and gave Dean a glimpse of a stripe of pale white flesh—

He didn’t care that he missed the trashcan with his wrapper, because he had to turn around, had to stop looking at that, because he was feeling _warm_ again, warm all over, and _no_. Why the hell was that skinny bastard _doing_ this to him?!

Dean listened to the rustling behind him as Cas tidied up the remains of their quick lunch, apparently content in his role of maid no matter the setting, and just tried to focus on making his hands stop trembling like a sweaty-palmed teenager and to try and stop feeling so hot under his collar.

But then Cas started talking, and Dean knew Cas saw him jump when he did. “When do you want to leave?” he asked, his voice calm and relaxed and Cas could just go to hell for being so at ease at a time like this.

Dean coughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh…I dunno. It’s not like we’ve got a check-out time hanging over our heads,” he babbled, and why was he saying this? No, they didn’t have a check-out time hanging over them, he _knew_ that, because he couldn’t stop _thinking_ about it, but why was he making the suggestion to Cas?!

Cas didn’t say anything in reply, and Dean tensed when he glanced up and saw him moving across the room towards him. However, he was just headed to the sink next to the bathroom, reaching for his toothbrush. Okay, that was no surprise—the guy was obsessive about brushing his teeth. Bobby had told them a long time ago that he did it, like, five times a day.

While Dean listened to the sound of running water behind him, he fussed needlessly with his bag on his bed. He didn’t have too much to pack now—neither of them did. Cas brought his neat-freak attitude with him, so had been constantly cleaning up after them both this whole trip, even going so far to fold Dean’s clothes for him all the time. Theoretically, once Cas was finished brushing his teeth (which would probably not be for a couple of hours, the weirdo), they could be gone in five minutes.

Or they could…stay. Just…just for an hour or two.

Dean ground his teeth, clenching one hand into a fist as he forcefully zipped up his bag before pulling it off the bed and throwing it on the already cleared table. He needed to go grab his brush and toothbrush before he forgot them, but Cas was still over there so he couldn’t. He didn’t want to get near him, because getting near him would make him ten times more aware of him than he already was, and if that happened, he might just explode.

They could not stay here. They needed to get back to South Dakota, back to Bobby’s. And there was a good reason for that—they needed to go back to Bobby’s because—because once there, he could get some good distance between him and Cas and then maybe he could think of a really good reason he and Cas needed to go back to Bobby’s. Yeah, that made sense. Because _anything_ made more sense right now than the fact that he wanted to go at Cas for seconds.

The water shut off—Cas was done at the sink. He could hear him messing around up there now, grabbing all his stuff from the sink, and then he wandered by to his bag, sitting right next to Dean’s on the table. Dean’s throat clicked as he swallowed hard, watching Cas casually packing his things away, that dreamy “I think Dean Winchester is just such a sex god” expression still plastered across his face, and it made Dean want to hit him because it was driving him _insane_.

Cas glanced up when Dean loudly cleared his throat, and he hated how his voice was slightly hoarse when he just blurted out, “So—what, uh, what time did _you_ wanna head out?” because he was obviously hedging even though he didn’t want to but he couldn’t fucking stop himself because _dammit_ , why was his dick talking for him because his dick wasn’t making any _sense_ today?!

Cas just shrugged. “Whenever you think we should.”

Oh, helpful as ever. And _goddammit_ , he couldn’t prevent his mouth from opening, and he heard himself babbling again, “If you wanted to…just chill for a bit, we could, I suppose. I mean, we did just come down off a hunt and you kinda got roughed up. We could…rest up, you know.”

“If you want to.”

 _Oh, fuck you!_ he snarled internally.

Okay, that was it. They were getting out of here. Staying here was not an option, because if they did, he was going to go insane, blow up, or…do something he really, really didn’t need to be doing. He was going to go over and get the rest of his stuff by the sink and in the bathroom, put it away, and tell Cas to get his ass in the car and they were going to leave this place and never, ever go on hunts alone together again. He stalked away from the bed, sucking in a breath because to get to the sink he had to go by Cas. So long as Cas stayed like he was, his back to the rest of the room and messing with his own stuff, things would be fine.

So of course right as Dean passed him, he glanced up, eyes all big and shiny, and it made Dean’s mouth go dry and his knees lock. Cas didn’t look away, either, and there he went, all Confuse-a-Cas, and it was little wonder—Dean knew he probably looked like he was having some kind of epic blue screen of death. Cas’s hands released his bag and he turned a little more to face him, and Dean knew he was about to say something, maybe to ask if the left side of his brain had just decided to shut down, but it didn’t matter because Cas did what he always did before Being Concerned, just wetted his lips a little with the tip of his tongue, and Dean saw it, and just like that it was all over.

Dean didn’t even have the sense to gloat over the surprised (if muffled) squeak Cas made when he suddenly seized him, yanking him forward into a crushing grip and kissing the ever-living shit out of him, not wasting any time and thrusting his tongue forward past Cas’s lips, and Cas stumbled backwards at Dean’s forceful insistence until his back thumped loudly against the wall. Dean was already sliding his hands eagerly under Cas’s shirt because he had to just _feel_ him, because he _wanted_ him, no point in pretending or denying it, he wanted him _now_ , and _goddammit_ , why the fuck was Cas just _sitting_ there?!

Tearing his mouth away from Cas’s, Dean assaulted his neck, panting against every spot he sucked and bit and licked, and that finally did it, snapping Cas out of whatever stupor he’d been in, and from there it was just grappling hands and seeking fingers and searing skin. Cas’s shirt was gone first, but Dean’s didn’t last much longer and seconds later they were blundering away from the wall, and all the air went out of Cas with a _woof_ when he toppled backwards onto one of the beds with Dean on top of him.

Dean was on fire, and Cas didn’t make things any better because his flesh was so _hot_ , pressed up against him, his fingers leaving burning trails every spot they touched, and they touched _everywhere_. Dean returned the favor, his hands questing eagerly all over Cas’s torso and followed by his mouth, but the tables got turned again when he somehow found himself on his back and Cas’s thighs were tight on his waist as he was tortured by teeth and tongue alike before he managed to get fistfuls of Cas’s hair and was kissing him again, frantic and desperate, and then they were both kicking off shoes and fumbling at the other’s jeans, struggling to get rid of anything and everything that separated them.

As always, once Cas learned something from Dean, he used the earliest opportunity to try it himself, and now that they were both stripped down to nothing Cas was back on top of him, his hand between them as Dean dug his fingers into his shoulder blades, and he felt Cas moving, his dick creating a maddening nudging pressure on his balls as he rutted between his thighs, just like Dean had done to him. Cas shuddered when Dean groaned his name against his mouth, his hands sliding down to squeeze his ass and push him down harder against him and then back up to knot in his hair again, but his wrists were seized as he did and pinned on either side of his head as Cas’s fingers entwined with his, squeezing almost painfully tight as Cas buried his face against Dean’s neck, panting as he thrust faster. Dean hissed when one of Cas’s hands suddenly reached between them and seized his cock, jerking tight and fast in time with his own movements, and fuck yes, that is what he wanted, this, just _this_ , and everything was twisting so tight, because it was Cas, Cas’s hands on him, Cas pressed tightly against every inch of him, his teeth biting down on his neck right where his pulse was hammering out of control, and his back arched upwards and he didn’t care that the people in the next room could probably hear him moaning as he thrashed under Cas as he came, and that just made Cas’s grip on him hot and slick as well as tight and he was gonna lose his mind, he couldn’t _handle_ this, couldn’t _take_ this, even as Cas’s hips jerked wildly—

Cas’s grip finally went loose along with the rest of him as he just collapsed on top of Dean. Dean barely registered it—barely registered anything. He didn’t even think about the hot and sticky mess that was cooling on his stomach and between his thighs, because he couldn’t. His brain was made of oatmeal, gummed up and hazy, Cas heavy and hot and panting where he lay on him. He stared through half-lidded eyes at a tiny water stain on the ceiling without really seeing it, vaguely musing on the fact that he couldn’t seem to move.

The weight on top of him shifted as Cas slowly pulled back, resting on his elbows on either side of Dean’s body as he lifted his head to blink stupidly down at him. Dean would’ve been amused at how, once again, Cas looked like he honestly had no idea what had just happened, but he couldn’t enjoy it like he usually did because Dean wasn’t entirely sure what had just hit him this time around, either. However, the movement _did_ alert Dean to the fact that he was pretty well…coated, and that was disgusting, but dammit, he didn’t have the energy to tell Cas to get off of him. Who the hell told him he could do it that way, anyway? Fortunately, Cas seemed to know he needed to move now, and was soon weakly pushing himself off of Dean, rolling over on his back next to him in bed with a soft exhale.

There weren’t any tissues nearby, Dean groused to himself. He supposed he could get up and get some from the bathroom, ‘cause he seriously needed to get that shit off him, but he did not want to get up—in fact, he doubted he could. One speculative look at the rumpled bedding later, he was wiping himself down with the underside of the blanket down on the corner from the foot of the bed where nobody would see. He hoped Cas had the good sense to do the same. Well, after he was done staring vacantly at the ceiling and panting.

Dean rolled on his side towards the edge of the bed, spotting his shorts. Weakly groping for them, he managed to hook them with one finger on the third try and drag them up into bed with him. He somehow got them on successfully despite his fingers being almost numb and his legs feeling like they’d had all their bones removed. Cas was finally moving, and Dean tiredly glanced behind him to see he was feebly using the blanket like he himself had done earlier, wiping the smears of spunk off of his stomach.

Not really too interested in watching that, Dean just gripped the edge of the sheet and got his legs under it, staying over on his side as he punched his pillow a few times before settling down into it. It was pointless to even consider getting up and getting dressed to head out—not after _that_ ridiculous full-frontal assault. He was exhausted—and he’d wager Cas was too. _Just an hour or two_ , he thought sluggishly, his brain already succumbing to that sex-induced narcolepsy he always got when he went crazy like this.

Just an hour or two. Then they’d go.


	3. My Soul's on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Dean’s thrown out all the rules, Cas decides to try a little something new too.

Dean could hear something.

He wasn’t quite sure what it was, because he was still half asleep, but it was annoying, whatever it was. The more pressing concern was that he was hot—hot and sweaty and gross. Grunting a little, he writhed around and shifted until he got untangled from the covers and shoved them off himself, and that got his mind moving a little more. Enough for him to realize that the irritating noise that had woken him up was his phone, glowing in the dark and buzzing insistently on the table next to him. He groped around until he found it, fumbling to answer it even as he heard Cas sigh softly in his sleep.

“Hello?” he muttered into the phone, keeping his voice down.

“Dean?”

His eyes widened. _Oh shit—Sammy!_ No, he could _not_ talk to his brother like this, no, no, no. He flung the covers away from him and shot out of bed, wobbling a little as he did.

“Ah—Sam, hey,” he replied, trying to sound bright and alert and keeping his voice quiet.

“What’s with the whispering?” Sam asked.

Dean resisted the urge to growl. _Just keep it cool—he doesn’t know, and it’s gonna stay that way._ “Tryin’ not to wake up Sleeping Beauty,” he said. “Though I probably should—his lazy ass is why we’re still here.”

“What, you’re not on the road yet?” Sam asked, sounding surprised.

“Nope. We got back to the motel and Cas was bitching about how his shoulder hurt, and then he took for-freaking-ever in the shower, of course—I swear to God, he’s in there shaving his legs and plucking his eyebrows and giving himself a facial or something—” and oh, but how nice it was that Dean’s stomach barely clenched at all when he thought of what Cas had _really_ been doing in there, and he was immensely proud that his voice was still light and joking, “—and then after lunch, he said he was gonna rest for a bit since we were up half the night anyway, but he just crashed. Should’ve told him he could nap in the car, ‘cause he’s _still_ asleep,” he finished smoothly.

Sam snorted. “Well, this was his first hunt that went a little south—what’s wrong with his shoulder?”

“Nothin’. He just landed hard on it when we were getting thrown around like tennis balls,” Dean elaborated, bending down to pick up his jeans. “But you know how he is—he gets a cold and he starts planning his funeral. Hypochondriac,” he continued as he tugged on his pants.

“He’s not _that_ bad,” Sam retorted, and Dean could tell he was rolling his eyes.

“You’re right, he’s not a hypochondriac—he’s just a pansy.”

Sam laughed. “So when are you headin’ out, then?”

Dean sat down heavily on the other still-made bed—Cas’s—as he contemplated Sam’s question. It was definitely a good one—when _were_ they headed out? Sam had no idea what was going on here, of course, so there was no more suspicion to ease. Sam didn’t know Dean was sitting in the room in the dark with just his pants on, and Cas was over in the other bed on his side, his breathing even and deep as he slept, still buck-naked and worn out.

“I dunno,” Dean said, stretching one arm over his head as he traced the curve of Cas’s spine—bared when Dean had thrown the covers aside—with his eyes, from the fringe of his hair on the back of his neck down to the top of his ass. “Cas can sleep through an earthquake when he really gets going, and it’s not like we’re in any hurry—don’t have to check out ‘til tomorrow. Cas’ll probably want something to eat when he gets up, and he’s such a bitch about eating in the car. I think he’s lying about getting carsick; he rode around fine all the times before.”

He heard Sam sigh huffily, that patented Sam Winchester put-upon sigh that was all patronizing and annoying and Dean was about to tell him where to stick that when he spoke again. “Dean, seriously—come on, I know what this is about.”

Dean went numb, and then realized that he’d been staring right where Cas’s naked butt disappeared under the sheets a second before he tore his gaze away. _Oh shit—he’d been wrong, Sam knew, Sam somehow_ knew _, fuck fuck_ fuck _—_

“You blame it all on Cas, but forget you told me all about that diner on the edge of town yesterday. The one with the lunch special? You do this every time we find some greasy spoon like that, Dean, because you can’t stand not going back in case we don’t pass through that town again.”

Dean let out the breath he’d been holding and managed to cover his awkward cough with a weak laugh. “Come on, Sammy, you’ve got no room to knock it—you didn’t eat there, so you can’t know. That place is amazing,” he replied, glad that he had to keep his voice down so Sam couldn’t hear how shaky it was with both his not-quite-gone panic and sudden relief.

“Well, there comes a time when your cloak-and-dagger over a double bacon cheeseburger and a slice of pie gets really old, you know. We’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, rubbing his head. “We’ll head out after lunch.”

“See you then. Don’t forget anything.”

“Don’t nag, you cripple,” he retorted, and then he hung up. After tossing it down on the table again, he reached down and zipped up his jeans and eased his legs up into bed, stretching leisurely and enjoying the pops and creaks his joints made as he did.

That…had been surprisingly easy. In fact, Sam had done his job for him—more, really, just by being the usual know-it-all he was. Dean hadn’t even thought of using the diner as an excuse (although he hadn’t been lying—the pie was hellaciously good, and the burger not far behind, and he got both, fries, and a coke for five bucks. Heaven). All he’d been hoping for was maybe sticking around until later tonight so they could be back at Bobby’s before noon tomorrow, and here he was with the rest of the day to relax and all night to sleep. _Thanks, bro_ , he smirked smugly to himself.

He sighed, content. No trip looming over his head, no worries that people were gonna walk in on him or hear him or figure out what he was up to, no hunt, no nothing—just a nice long evening in front of him where he could do whatever the hell he wanted. _Or whoever_ , he mused idly before he caught himself. The thought brought him up briefly short…but with a slightly uncomfortable internal shrug, he just ran with it. Maybe later he could…try for another go. Take advantage of the situation, after all. He knew Cas wouldn’t care. Just the opposite, really. Lacing his hands behind his head, he just stared up at the ceiling, listening to the way Cas was breathing over in his bed—well, Dean’s bed, anyway.

It was still weird, he thought to himself. Cas didn’t have smooth, mile-long legs, curvy hips, tits that fit perfectly in his hands, and worst of all, no sweet honeypot for him to sink into. But Dean…well, he wanted to have his way with the skinny runt anyway. Dammit. He sighed explosively. Weird. Definitely weird, and probably wouldn’t ever stop being weird. But, after the last three days of getting wound up tighter than a snare drum, he figured he’d just have to get used to it. He wasn’t gonna go through that again. Besides, it had its advantages—he felt pretty damned satisfied, and he hadn’t even had real sex.

But still. Weird. And he wasn’t…completely okay with it. But he was pretty sure that he’d be able to get used to it.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but he felt his eyes drifting shut just in time to hear rustling in the other bed. Dean popped his neck, pulling his hands out from behind his head and rolling over on his side, glancing up at the clock as he did—coming up on seven in the evening. No wonder he was starting to feel hungry. Heaving another sigh, he finally looked over at Cas.

Cas was struggling to sit up, and Dean idly mused that his hair looked absolutely no different than it always looked, sticking up in every direction. He managed to get into an upright position, his palms sinking into the mattress behind him, as he blinked blearily at the room. Dean gave him a few more seconds to get a huge yawn out of the way before he made his own presence known.

“‘Bout time you woke up,” he said, his voice low as he propped himself up on one elbow and leaned his head into his hand.

He resisted the urge to laugh when Cas actually looked vacantly at the empty spot beside him first before gazing across the room at him. Instead, Dean just reached up to the lamp on his side of the bed and switched it on, reducing them both to rapid blinking and squinting against the sudden brightness. Dean rubbed a hand across his eyes, and then he swung his legs back out of bed, deciding it was about time he got up.

“Just so you know, we’re not heading out until tomorrow morning,” Dean continued. “So—you want something to eat? It’s nearly seven.”

Cas was still blinking at him, looking confused now, which made Dean roll his eyes. He poked around on the table again, looking through the flyers by the phone until he spotted one that looked good. “Pizza?” he asked, waving the ad at Cas.

Cas glanced from the flyer back to Dean a few times, and then he licked his lips a little before talking. “I…yes,” he said, more growly than usual with sleep.

“Great,” Dean said, getting to his feet. “This thing says they have a guaranteed delivery time, so you’d better get dressed.”

Cas was still giving him that confused, hesitant look again, like he wasn’t quite sure what Dean was saying to him, and the combination of that plus that tongue thing he always did was making him feel hot again—okay, now things were getting ridiculous. He just woke up, man! Just ‘cause he’d— _pondered_ thirds didn’t meant he wanted them _now_! So he made a big show of grabbing his phone off the table and waving Cas off to the bathroom, obviously waiting to dial until he started moving.

Unfortunately, that meant having to watch Cas get out of bed. Dean quickly turned around when Cas just pushed the covers off and _crap_ , Dean got an eyeful again. It didn’t get much better when instead of going straight for his clothes, Cas just started wandering around the room, getting his bag from the table by the TV and digging around for his toothbrush. Dean found himself sympathizing with Bobby now—Bobby’d had to _live_ with this for a few months before he’d finally gotten through to the little hippie that clothes were _not_ optional. And even then, he still found ways around it. Whenever he and Sam took Cas out on hunts, they usually managed to avoid this kind of thing—guess Cas figured he could cheat a little now that he and Dean were…doing what they were doing. Or something.

When Cas was finally safely in the bathroom with his clothes, Dean flipped his phone open and dialed the pizza place, starting a slow pace around the room as he ordered. They were offering what was a pretty good deal when he first read about it, but it quickly became an awesome deal when he heard the dessert it came with was basically a pizza apple pie, so a large cheese, breadsticks, dessert, and two liters of Coke for twenty bucks was perfectly fine by him. After asking them to throw in an extra two-liter of Mountain Dew to go with it and rattling off the delivery address, they told him he’d have dinner in fifteen minutes. Sounded great to him—if Cas wasn’t dressed by then, he’d just lock him in the bathroom and eat everything by himself.

He shut his phone, stretching again, but as he froze when he suddenly spotted the thermostat. His eyes narrowing, he stalked across the room so he could get a better look— _dammit, Cas!_ No wonder he’d woken up covered in sweat—how many times was that conniving bitch gonna turn it up to eighty-three in here when he knew no one was looking?! Out of spite, he turned it down all the way to sixty-five, not caring that it was probably only thirty degrees out right now. He was gonna freeze Cas’s butt off for that—see how he liked parading around _au natural_ then.

After he located his shirt where it had somehow been kicked under the bed—Jesus, just how nuts had they gone earlier?—he tugged it on but didn’t bother with his socks or shoes. He ran his fingers through his hair to put it into a little order, and when he heard the doorknob to the bathroom rattle, he risked a quick glance behind him and saw Cas shuffling out, tugging his shirt on as he made his way over to the sink. Good—if he’d come waltzing out of that bathroom still naked, Dean would’ve taken a wet towel to his ass.

The wait for food wasn’t too long, and Dean was pleased to find that it wasn’t uncomfortable either; Dean suggested that Cas make his bed for him, mostly to give him something to do. He didn’t really care it was unmade, but considering he’d used the sheets to clean up after their last little to-do, he wanted to make sure no one could see it, and he didn’t care that the pizza guy probably wouldn’t even see inside the room at all (come to think of it, Dean didn’t want to see it either. And he didn’t want to sleep on it. That was now Cas’s bed; Dean’s was the clean one). But Cas did it happily enough, probably thinking it was some kind of treat after Dean had yelled at him for it before, and had just finished fluffing the pillows when the knock on their door came.

They didn’t talk much while they ate. Dean caught Cas sneaking those _looks_ at him over dinner, and he wondered when the guy would stop trying to hide it. But he was used to the looks by now, so he just ignored him, occasionally getting up to grab more ice from the fridge as they drank their way through their respective two-liters.

The apple pizza pie was, of course, amazing. Cas was equally enamored, though Dean suspected it was less good taste in food and more his ridiculous love of cinnamon. He still remembered Bobby’s story about catching Cas just eating a big bowl of cinnamon and sugar like it was cereal. Of course, it wasn’t just cinnamon—he had a thing for all kinds of spices, particularly those in Indian and Italian food. Well, almost all kinds—he’d shrivel up and die if you so much as said the word “pepper” to him (and that wasn’t Dean’s fault, goddammit). Cas was so goddamn weird sometimes.

They didn’t take too long to polish everything off, and soon all that was left was cleanup. Dean put what was left of their drinks in the fridge while Cas packed the boxes away, folding them up into a neat, compact shape and cramming them in the trash. Dean shook his head as Cas immediately went off to obsess over his oral hygiene _again_ , while he himself just settled down on the bed in front of the TV, feeling pleasantly full and enjoying how the room was already feeling cooler ( _take that, punk_ ), and grabbed the remote.

Dean didn’t really pay much attention to what he watched as he flipped through the channels, and Cas didn’t watch at all, simply laying out on the other bed after discovering the stash of magazines in the room. The noise of the TV was pleasant in the background as Dean sat and digested, feeling dozy. He paid no attention to the clock because he didn’t have to—there was nothing pressing, nothing that needed doing. If he wanted to sit in a food-coma, he could.

He figured he must’ve dozed off a few times for short stretches by the time the credits rolled on the movie he’d picked at random, because his memory of how they’d gotten from point A to point B was sketchy, and it sure didn’t feel like he’d been watching TV long enough for it to be ten o’clock. Popping his neck as he used the remote to turn off the TV, he looked over at the other bed; Cas was still there, very solemnly reading… _Cosmo_? _Seriously?_

Dean snorted with laughter, rolling out of bed to double-check the locks on the door and their “Do Not Disturb” sign and do a quick sweep. Both were right where they should be, and things looked clear outside. Tugging the curtains a little tighter over the windows, he made his way to the bathroom, shaking his head at the image of Cas reading (and clearly not understanding) something like _Cosmo_.

“You know that magazine’s for girls, right?” he asked over the roar of the toilet when he emerged from the bathroom again, prompting Cas to glance up with furrowed brows.

“No,” he replied, turning the page.

Dean stared for a moment longer before rolling his eyes and looking down at the collection of magazines next to him. _Readers’ Digest_ wasn’t so bad, but _Highlights_? That was for little kids—and Jesus Christ, he had a copy of _Vogue_ in there, too. What next—would he start reading _Good Housekeeping_ while he was at it? Playing Bobby’s maid must be going to his head; next thing they’d know, he be watching Martha Stewart.

Scratching the back of his neck, he couldn’t help but glance down at the clock again. Just past ten…checkout was at eleven tomorrow morning. He could thrive on very little sleep, but Cas was a puss and whined when he had to stay up late and wake up early the next day, because apparently, at heart Cas wasn’t really an angel but just a little old lady. They’d probably be going to bed for real soon—midnight, maybe, or one at the latest.

He supposed he could look for another movie to watch. Or just turn on the TV again for background noise. There was always the deck of cards he had—Cas was getting better, and Dean really wanted to get him skilled enough to start hustling with them because his poker face could not be beat. Some practice before bed couldn’t hurt. He hadn’t serviced any of their weapons, either—back in the old days Dad would’ve skewered him alive for waiting so long to take care of that. Maybe he and Cas could do that before bed, not wait to get back to Bobby’s this time. There were a million different things to do to pass the time until they went to sleep.

Including…that one thing.

Yeah, pacing was inevitable. He hated doing it in front of Cas, because Cas would start watching him and Dean would start feeling like an idiot—even more than he already did. But there was nothing else he could _do_. He knew he wanted to—he’d stopped denying it. He wanted a little hanky-panky, so of course the sensible thing to do was to go over there and sidle up to Cas and start putting the moves on him. This should not be a problem—how many times had he done that with women in his life?

Well…that was precisely the problem, wasn’t it? _Women._ And usually women who weren’t _idiots_ and who understood an innuendo or two and a sly look and knew what he was hinting at. But not only was he dealing with a complete moron, but a complete moron who was a _dude_. Flirting with women was easy. Trying to flirt with clueless ex-angel guys was…well.

He didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about hinting anything to him. He was having enough trouble just dealing with the fact that he wanted to at all; just because he’d stopped denying it didn’t mean it had just up and stopped weirding him out.

As he passed by the foot of Cas’s bed, he risked a quick and inconspicuous glance up at him. He was still reading, his head tilted a little now at whatever article had him so absorbed. Why did he keep _reading_ it, then? He always did that; no matter how much it confused him, he just kept right at it. He did it with porn, he did it when Dean had made him watch _Eraserhead_ to try to gross him out, and now he was doing it with _Cosmo_. Maybe this would be easier if Cas was paying any attention to him at all—no, he decided, it wouldn’t, because then all he’d be doing was _look_ at him, and that never did _anything_ to help any situation.

 _Okay. Take a step back—how did you do this the last two times?_ No, no, _no_ , that wasn’t helpful either, because the last two times he’d just _jumped_ him, and he didn’t want to do that again! It made him feel… _weird_ afterwards, thinking about how he’d pretty much done exactly what he’d always yelled at Cas for doing back when they’d first started—started _doing_ stuff.

Pursing his lips, he stared for a moment at the foot of the bed before walking over and sitting rather stiffly on the very edge, drumming his fingers on his thigh. Cas’s crossed ankles were next to him, and he wasn’t sure if Cas had finally looked up at him yet or not because he was tense and edgy and as a result it felt like every single thing in the room was staring at him. See, were Cas a woman, he’d reach over and slowly walk his fingers up Long Leg Highway until he reached Destination G-Spot. But he couldn’t do that with Cas, because if he tried that, Cas would probably just look at him and ask what he was doing. Not to mention there was no Destination G-Spot. No, last stop was Bangkok all the way. Fuck.

He started grumpily at the wall. This really wasn’t fair. He was restless and he was already feeling that familiar tension running up and down his legs because he knew what he wanted and what he wanted was _right there_ , but what he wanted was—well, _that_.

His spine straightened a little when he felt the bed moving, and then Cas’s legs disappeared from where they’d been resting next to him. Oh, great—now Cas was leaving. Idiot probably thought Dean just wanted the bed back so he could go to sleep. No, he _didn’t_ want to sleep, not yet, he wasn’t even tired anymore, but he was gonna have to do it anyway, he was gonna go to sleep frustrated and probably wake up horny and hard and there would be nothing he could do about it. Oh, what did Cas want _now_ , sliding his hand hesitantly up his back to rest on his shoulder as he eased up behind him, and as Dean irritably turned to face him he couldn’t help a small start as Cas’s other hand came to rest low on his stomach, warm and gentle, and he was right there, breathing against the corner of his mouth, eyes shy and hopeful and then closed when a tentative kiss was pressed against Dean’s lower lip, and, well, that was good enough for him.

Cas made a small noise against his mouth when Dean just let himself fall backwards, grabbing Cas by the arms and pulling him down too so that he landed on top of him, and as he scooted up so he was resting comfortably on the pillows, Dean found himself wondering if there were any possible way to skip all the uncomfortable build up to this, because he already couldn’t remember why he’d been fussing so much about all the ways he _shouldn’t_ be groping Cas’s butt. In fact, he’d pretty much stopped caring about all those reasons why he’d been thinking that it was weird and probably half-wrong to be enjoying these long, leisurely kisses with Cas that he knew full well were gonna lead to other things. Honestly, who gave a damn? He sure as hell didn’t, so he just hooked his thumbs in the belt loops on Cas’s jeans to tug his hips more snugly against his own, _hmming_ contentedly as Cas stroked up and down his throat with his fingers.

He kept his arms around Cas, keeping him pressed up against him because there was no hurry—they had all night. Cas didn’t seem to mind at all, matching Dean’s relaxed pace, one hand trailing lightly down his side all the way to his hip and then going back up again, pressing against his ribs. Dean was sliding his hands lazily all across Cas’s back, fingers moving restlessly against the fabric of his shirt. Cas sucked gently on Dean’s lower lip before resting his forehead against his, eyes half-closed, and then he leaned down and nuzzled his cheek, curling his fingers under the hem of his t-shirt, his thumbs stroking where Dean’s hipbones disappeared into his jeans.

 _Slow and steady won the race, that’s right._ Dean liked to take his time; with Cas, that was always a regrettably rare situation. Usually, circumstances, company, or the winged little horndog himself conspired against them to make it quick and dirty. But now the planets seemed to have aligned, and Dean was planning to make the most of it. Their kisses were slow and deep, no biting, no fighting. Their shirts weren’t torn violently off and flung away this time; they simply seemed to disappear when it seemed a good time for them to go, and always at the same slow, steady pace he was quite content to keep. Just a nice, easy make-out.

Dean was happy to stay where he was, on his back against the pillows with Cas’s knees on either side of his thighs and his hands sinking into the mattress near his upper arms, Cas mouth hot against his and his hips slowly rocking against Dean’s growing erection. But Cas seemed to have other ideas, suddenly sliding downward and working his lips down that familiar path he’d perfected over the years to be exactly what Dean wanted, down his jaw, behind his ear, across his throat to softly lick both pulse points, all while his hands petted up and down his sides. Dean sighed, bringing his hands up rest against Cas’s shoulder blades, caressing gently, as he continued on his wet, winding way, kissing his tattoo before dragging his mouth down to the spot on his ribs where he knew his heart was steadily thumping. Dean was unsurprised when he hung out there for a while, rubbing and caressing like he was making sure Dean was still alive, but he was on the move again before Dean could get annoyed.

After taking a very thorough inventory of what seemed like every spot on Dean’s torso that made him twitch, he slipped out from under Dean’s hands as he sat up, prompting Dean to open his eyes again and glance down. He supposed that it still looked kinda messed up, having a guy straddling him like that instead of a girl, but whatever—he didn’t care, ‘cause it was just Cas. No, what he cared about was how Cas was tugging at the button on his jeans, because he wasn’t ready for that yet, so he pushed himself up off the mattress and sat up, grabbing Cas around the back of the neck and pulling him right back down where he was before using his own weight to get wiggle them on their sides so they were facing each other, sliding his hand over Cas’s leg to keep it hooked up over his own hip.

This was nice, lying like this—gave him pretty nice access to everything, he thought, as he moved his hand up Cas’s thigh and over the curve of his ass, bringing his own knee up to press gently into the crotch of Cas’s jeans. _Too bad Cas as often as not gets impatient_ , he thought with some annoyance, _always trying to crawl back on top like he is right now._

Well, Dean didn’t feel like it, so he pushed back against Cas until he’d pinned him. At least he didn’t fight it any more like he used to when he got so excited; Dean got Cas on his back quickly enough, and as he leaned over him, he figured that while he was here, he might as well return the favor. He scooted down, taking special care to make sure that he brushed across the straining front of Cas’s jeans as he went, until he was down on eye level with Cas’s soft stomach. Tilting his head up to meet Cas’s eyes, he found him looking back, flushed and breathing heavily. He smirked at him and then pressed his lips on the soft place just above Cas’s jeans, then teasingly poked his tongue into his navel, and one of Cas’s hands quickly found its way to move restlessly through Dean’s hair. He deliberately worked his way up, applying his teeth and tongue anywhere he knew would wring a gasp out of Cas, and he didn’t disappoint. Dean’s hands came up reflexively across his flat chest despite there not being anything to cup, and even though it still pissed him off that he couldn’t get a mouthful, he fell back into familiar habits and licked at the depressingly tiny nipples anyway—which became a lot less depressing with the soft, lingering moan he got for his troubles.

Cas seriously needed to calm down, Dean thought as he reached the base of his throat, breathing steadily against the spot he’d just licked. Cas was already panting hard, squirming and shivering against him. Now that he knew what it looked like, he could tell that Cas was actually restraining himself, the fingers in Dean’s hair tense while his free hand was knotted in the blankets. Figuring he’d better set about taming the savage beast, Dean moved his mouth away from his hot spot, deciding he’d get his neck at another time, and instead just went back to kissing him, pressing back firmly against Cas’s over-eager tongue with his own. Dammit, why did he wanna rush when there was no _need_ for it? Who knew when they’d have a chance like this again?

He paused at that thought, his hand resting right at the top of Cas’s jeans, contemplatively running the tip of his nose along Cas’s jaw. That was true—this was a time to take advantage of the moment; he could _totally_ have some fun here, like he wouldn’t be able to do once they were back with Sam and Bobby. Making Cas come unglued in the shower had been seriously…well, honestly, it had been ridiculously hot, and was no doubt part of the reason he was drifting through this sex haze at the moment. Cas was squirming beneath him, trying to speed things up, and his wiggling was tangling up their legs, but Dean didn’t budge. He just kept his kisses slow and wouldn’t give Cas what he wanted, though Dean wasn’t making it any easier on him when he slid his hand lower and rubbed gently at the front of Cas’s jeans. Truth be told, he wanted to get Cas that desperate again—but jumping Cas while he was in the shower again was not happening. He wasn’t _that_ okay with what they were doing.

What he _was_ okay with, however, was the way Cas was nibbling behind his ear. In fact, he was more okay with that than he should be, so he pulled back, kissing Cas slow and easy and into submission even when he applied more pressure to Cas’s hard-on—seriously, the guy needed to learn that he could get his dick touched _without_ going insane.

Dean gave him one last squeeze, well-timed with one more long and leisurely kiss, enjoying the way Cas groaned quietly against his mouth, before he pulled away, scooting completely off of him and lowering himself onto his stomach and hanging halfway off the bed to grope around under the bed for his hunting bag. He didn’t just keep his guns and knives and holy water in there—no, that was his all-purpose hunting bag. There were the tools he used for monster hunting, and then there was a small pocket inside of the bag where he kept what he needed for _tail_ hunting. He didn’t need the condoms—but he did want that tube of lube he kept in there, because he’d rarely met a woman who’d turn it down (not to mention that it was his own best friend on long lonely nights on the job).

He’d just managed to brush one of the straps with the tips of his fingers and was about to lean further down to try and grab said strap when he felt hands on his shoulders that preceded Cas’s heavy weight on his back as the nervy punk just made himself at home on top of him, his chest pressed up against him and his breath hot on the back of his neck. Dammit, Cas, not now—didn’t he see he was busy? No, he did not, because he was rather busy himself—busy nipping along Dean’s shoulder as his arms slid around to his torso, his hands stroking down Dean’s stomach as he rubbed his cock against his ass. Dean’s reaching for his bag became more or less blind fumbling for it because Cas was very annoying, licking and sucking on his neck like that, and nobody said he could give him the reach-around, his fingers teasing across the front of his jeans and somehow managing to make him even harder. Dean tried to elbow him in the ribs to get him off of him, but he missed and so he just went back to flailing around for his bag, struggling to keep his focus despite the very distracting combination of Cas’s tongue on the spot where his neck met his shoulder and his fingers squeezing and stroking him down south.

 _Finally_ , he managed to grab the strap that had been evading his fingers and he yanked it into view, but now a new struggle began because now he had to unzip it and dig through it and find what he needed and—when the hell did Cas suddenly become inventive?! Was he seriously _kissing down his backbone_ —fuck yes, he was, and it was _driving him insane_. Dean clenched his teeth as he felt the rough wetness of Cas’s tongue drawing a line back up his spine, and then his weight returned, Cas’s arms tight around him, and Dean growled at him when he bit him on the shoulder, and he _finally_ found it, twisting around in Cas’s grip with the little plastic tube firmly in one hand. He managed to roll over and get on his back all the way on the bed again, but he was still underneath Cas and his neck was being assaulted again as Cas ground his hips against his, and that bastard was just trying to get Dean as worked up as he was now and fuck him if it wasn’t working.

He braced himself against the bed and shoved against Cas’s shoulders, forcing him to sit up and get the hell off of him. He went easily enough, and Dean used the opportunity to finally sit up but kept himself moving, pressing Cas insistently backwards. Even though Dean had never used his personal hunter’s helper on Cas before (though he had used an occasional squirt or two of lotion), he seemed to know that what he had was a Good Thing and was all but scrabbling back to get centered on the bed. Dean followed him closely, rolling his eyes at Cas getting the eager virgin teenager look again, and leaned forward a bit to kiss him, moving with him as he laid back on the rumpled pillows. Dean reached down between them with one hand, easily flicking open the button on Cas’s jeans, and he felt Cas’s sigh of relief when he slowly tugged down the zipper.

Normally he sat back and let Cas kick out of his pants himself, but he was feeling particularly expansive tonight, so he didn’t wait for him to sit up and try to take them off and instead scooted down, his fingers curling all the way inside the waistband of his shorts. He deliberately kept his eyes on Cas’s as he pulled down, his jeans and shorts sliding off his hips and down his legs, and Cas quite obviously approved of the idea of Dean undressing him. That was nice and all, except Dean did _not_ approve of the view from down here, so he made his way back up to laying next to Cas as fast as he could without looking too awkward.

It was kinda…weird, having Cas completely naked next to him. Thinking back on it, he was vaguely startled to realize that their little romp in the shower had been the very first time they’d ever done their thing in the nude at all, and the second time after that, he hadn’t really had any time to think about it—well, either way, he was glad to still have his pants on. Cas may have no shame, but Dean still wasn’t _entirely_ comfortable letting it all hang out in front of him. But he wasn’t going to spend time contemplating the lack of clothes—he had more important things to do, one of which was to make Cas stop _pawing_ at him like that, because he didn’t want to lose his own pants yet, dammit!

He grabbed Cas’s wrist and pulled his hand away from his crotch, pinning it for a moment on the bed—long enough for Cas to (hopefully) get the message. He did, fortunately, sitting still and obviously all aquiver with anticipation, way too eager to get to his Grand Finale. Five years later and he _still_ didn’t fully appreciate foreplay. Well, fine. He wanted to officially start in on that the Main Event? Dean would oblige him—but remember, he asked for it.

He snapped the cap off of his lube and squirted a generous handful into his palm before reaching over Cas to set the closed tube back on the table next to them and then laying back down beside him. After squeezing his hand into a fist a few times, he kept his gaze on Cas’s face as he reached down and curled his slippery fingers around Cas’s dick, watching as Cas’s eyes fell closed and he tilted his head back blissfully.

Dean didn’t start out fast at all this time, or even tight. His grip was loose, his pace just as slow and steady as he wanted things to be, and for once Cas seemed to get it, just rocking his hips a little in time with Dean’s motions. Dean leaned down and pressed his mouth against the line of Cas’s jaw, and then kissed him when Cas turned towards him. He didn’t do just the standard up-and-down for long, though, and squeezed his way up to the top, rubbing his slick palm in easy circles around just the tip, making Cas sigh against his lips. He trailed the tips of his fingers down his cock and then lower, only hesitating a little before cupping Cas’s balls and massaging gently.

Oh, he liked that. Cas’s fingers flexed against his shoulder, his back arching as he pushed himself against Dean’s palm. Dean smirked, trailing the tip of one finger from base to tip, and then resumed his unhurried jerk, just a bit tighter this time. The lube was definitely one of his better ideas—not only was it sensible, seeing as this was their _third_ go in one day, but Cas had never used it before, and Dean knew from experience that it always improved things. He also knew from experience that every single “new” thing drove Cas wild, so Dean was also gonna get what _he_ really wanted out of this: Cas in a state of mindless rut, rendered helplessly, hopelessly undone by Dean’s hands. Awesome.

Ducking his head, Dean leaned down to tease his tongue across one of Cas’s nipples and then nipped a little, and he supposed it was forgivable Cas didn’t have boobs because Dean still got that hitch of his chest and a sharp inhalation. He leisurely licked from Cas’s sternum to right below his chin, tightening and twisting his fist as he kept his hand steadily moving, and was rewarded when Cas breathed his name, something that never failed to absolutely send him—he’d heard his name in bed before, heard it _screamed_ in bed before, but nobody ever said it like _Cas_ did, like he did _every_ time, and he still didn’t understand why that always ignited that line of fire all the way down his spine to the pit of his stomach and ending in his groin.

Soon, Dean’s free hand was joining the other, and Dean couldn’t help but feel smug at the sound of Cas’s helpless, breathy moan as Dean started working him with both hands, one between his thighs squeezing and rubbing his sack while the other stayed tight on his dick. Cas writhed and twitched under his ministrations, and he tucked his face right up under Cas’s chin and soothed his tongue across Cas’s fluttering pulse.

Cas’s fingers were in his hair, holding his mouth where it was, while the other hand clung tightly to his shoulder, pulling him closer. His breathing was ragged, his entire body trembling as Dean worked him with everything he had but still kept it agonizingly slow, and he leaned up to catch Cas’s lower lip between his teeth, sucking gently before kissing him hard and deep and long enough to leave them both gasping for air (but Cas more so).

Dean leaned his forehead against Cas’s; Cas’s eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, and his fingers flexed every time he thrust forward against Dean’s hands, obviously wanting it to go faster but for once letting Dean set the pace without fighting him on it, grunting quietly every time Dean squeezed his cock on the down stroke, and then just whimpering helplessly when Dean’s thumb dragged slow circles around the leaking head. Dean was still rhythmically working his balls with his other hand, and he faltered only a moment before sliding the tips of his fingers down to rub behind them, and couldn’t help but grin at the strangled noise Cas made as his hips gave a sharp, reflexive jerk. But then he was just groaning, again and again, as Dean suddenly sped up, jerking him hard and fast, his hand tight and hot and slick. He had a quick, slightly evil impulse to stop cold, but instead he just bit down gently on Cas’s neck and kept going, pumping his fist rapidly, Cas’s gasps making him shiver with pleasure.

The fingers in his hair yanked his head back and Cas kissed him with bruising force even as he moaned against his mouth, but then his eyes flew open and that was all Dean could see, just Cas, staring at him, through him, _into_ him, and his eyes were wide and blue and intense and half-crazed. It was almost enough to make him miss that Cas’s movements had gotten wild and desperate against his palm, but then the look was gone as his eyes squeezed shut again and his head flew backwards against the pillows and his back arched, and just in time Dean managed to get his hand cupped over Cas’s cock, and Cas almost seemed to _sob_ his name as he came.

Dean kept up his motions until Cas’s seven seconds in heaven were over, and all too soon he was done, the room still except for Cas’s heavy breathing. Dean didn’t move for a few moments, Cas going soft in his hand, and he just let the guy cling weakly to him mostly because there weren’t many things Dean enjoyed more than watching Cas come down after he’d nuked him. However, satisfying as it was, he seriously needed to clean himself off—the combination of lube and divine baby batter made things nastier than usual.

He snorted with laughter when Cas twitched as he removed his hands, rubbing against him not-so-accidentally as he went, and reached across him once more for the tissues he’d put on the bedside table earlier—see, he’d been right to do that, he knew Cas would want another go—and pulled out his handful before passing the box to Cas, mopping off his hands as thoroughly as he could. Cas was limply trying to take care of himself, and Dean just tossed his wad of wet tissues in the trash before he propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes on Cas’s still stupefied face. That would never get old.

Once Cas was done, he leaned back again, staring up at Dean in the way that Dean always thought looked like Cas couldn’t quite believe he was real. Unable to stop himself from smirking a little, he reached out with one finger and traced the line of Cas’s collarbones on his damp skin, and Cas shifted onto his side, his hand coming up to splay against Dean’s ribs as he pushed close to him, his lips millimeters from Dean’s, his breath still coming in quick little pants. Dean closed the distance, pressing a soft and decidedly chaste kiss against Cas’s mouth, trailing his hand down Cas’s side to rest on his hip, tugging him even closer. Dean already felt hot, but the simmering heat in his gut was just getting hotter, and while his hard-on might have subsided a little during clean-up, ‘cause that was gross, his jeans were still tight, and they were already getting tighter again—maybe he should undo them now, give Cas a bit of a signal—

“Dean,” Cas murmured, his fingers stroking his throat. Cas’s eyes met his, and Dean couldn’t help but furrow his brow a little—Cas never talked after or _during_ , and for good reason. Sweet nothings were for chicks, so Dean just leaned forward again, kissing him to make him shut up, and tugged him forward as he rolled back, pulling Cas halfway on top of him. Cas’s brain was obviously still sluggish, because he seemed happy to just sit there and kiss him, nothing else—which, while nice, was also making Dean a little crazy, because he was seriously starting to want to get _off_ here—why the hell did he decide that _now_ was the time to go slow? Cas broke off their kiss, though, and Dean could tell he was gonna talk again—dammit, what was up with that?

“Dean,” he said again, and Dean reached up to yank him back down again and just get the party started himself—

“Would you like me to perform fellatio on you?”

There was that single second where all Dean could do was stare blankly up at Cas, his brain struggling to process what Cas had just said.

And then the words and their meaning finally penetrated the fog in his mind.

_Would you like me to perform fellatio on you?_

_Would you like—_

“ _What—?!_ ” Dean shrieked, sitting up and struggling to shove Cas off of him, but in doing that he shoved _himself_ away from Cas, and he hadn’t been paying attention to how close he was to the edge and had no time to catch himself. He crashed to the floor, landing very painfully on his hip, but managed to get to his feet quickly, whirling around and staring wildly at Cas, who had pushed himself up on the bed and was looking startled, confused, concerned, and _goddammit, the bastard was stark naked_!

Jerking his head to the side, Dean focused on the floor instead, trying to figure out a good way to put his head back together from where it had fucking exploded.

“Dean, I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

“So you _did_ just ask me that!” Dean growled, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Cas repeated plaintively. “I—wasn’t aware you didn’t like fellatio.”

“Stop _calling_ it that!” Dean burst out, catching himself from turning around to glare at Cas because to glare at Cas meant he’d be glaring at his limp prick, too. “Why’d you even _ask_ me that?!” he demanded.

There was a pause, and then Cas responded, obviously choosing his words carefully. “I just thought you might enjoy—oral sex.”

 _Oh, fuckbuckets._ “Don’t fucking call it _that_ , either,” Dean hissed.

“Then what should I call it?”

“How about you don’t say it at _all_?!” Dean hollered, turning around to glare at him, keeping his eyes firmly on Cas’s face, but he couldn’t hold his gaze for long and soon was looking away once more.

Silence again, and then Cas started back up. “I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.”

Dean ground his teeth at that pitiful, remorseful tone. “Cas, you—where the _hell_ did you even get the _idea_? How do you _know_ about that?!”

“I…looked.”

Dean blinked at the floor, waiting for the punch line. When it never came, he looked up and demanded, “You _looked_? Looked at _what_?”

Cas was fidgeting, which meant he thought he was about to get in trouble, which meant he was about to say something that Dean really didn’t want to hear. “I…I researched the subject.”

Dean squinted at him, pursing his lips. “You just sat around watching porn, didn’t you,” he said flatly.

“Only some,” Cas replied, and any other time Dean would have laughed at the defensive way he said it. “I was curious, about human…behavior, and when I saw that, I—looked up how to do it. I thought—everything I read said that it was…a very popular act, and I thought that—that you might like it.”

Dean wanted to tell Cas he thought wrong. He wanted to tell Cas to never ask that or even _think_ about that again, because that was _not_ happening. Ever. He wanted to tell Cas to put some damn clothes on and go to bed and never speak of this again.

The only problem was there was another part of him that just kept turning the idea over and over and over. See, Dean did like oral sex. A _lot_. It’d been years since he’d had a good blowjob. And he’d just been offered one. _Cas_ had just offered him one. _His_ Cas.

No. He might do shit with Cas, but there were some things he would _not_ do.

_After everything you’ve done so far on this hunting trip turned weekend getaway?_

Look, frotting in the shower and letting Cas _give him head_ were two _very_ different things—

_Yeah, the difference being you just had the one eight hours ago and haven’t had the other in four or five years._

No, goddammit! He couldn’t because—because he _couldn’t_! He couldn’t because it was _Cas_!

_That’s right. It’s Cas._

He—he wouldn’t have any idea what he was doing anyway! It would just be weird and messed up and it wouldn’t be any good and everything would suck all around!

_Oh, it’ll suck, all right, and that’s really all that matters._

Fuck, this wasn’t going at all like he’d wanted it to.

He was already walking that familiar circular path around the motel floor, his hands laced together behind his neck. This was not good. Nothing about this was good, because there was no possible way to make the fact that he was actually considering letting Cas fucking _suck him off_ —was actually starting to get _turned on by the thought_ —no, no way in the world to make that sound good.

Except how the sucking-off part sounded good. _Really_ good. Even if it would be Cas doing the sucking.

_Jesus Fucking Christ…_

He knew Cas was watching him pace back and forth, could feel his gaze on him, and he knew if he looked at him all he’d see were those sorrowful sheep’s eyes because all Cas ever did when they wound up in this kind of situation was sit around and be pathetic because _ooh_ , he’d upset _Dean_. And Dean _hated_ when he did that, because every time Cas did it, _he_ was the one who felt like the jerk!

Finally stopping his pacing, facing the wall with his eyes closed, Dean just stood still, breathing hard through his nose.

It was Cas. Just…it was just Cas. It was Cas making the offer, and Dean knew it was entirely genuine and that he actually _wanted_ to do it because he figured Dean got off on that kind of thing—and fuck-it-all, he was right.

Dean turned, making his way over to the bed and sitting gingerly on the very edge of it, his hands on his knees. “Okay. Just—a couple of things, Cas,” he started, struggling to keep his voice measured. “Don’t—don’t _ever_ ask that again. You don’t—don’t friggin’ _talk_ about it because—you just _don’t_. And—” Dean swallowed, staring at the ceiling for a moment before steeling himself to continue. “And if I…if I tell you to stop, you _stop_ , you get me?” 

He looked over his shoulder, staring hard at Cas and hating how he could feel that dull heat on his neck again. Then he saw the confused distress in Cas’s eyes suddenly give way to surprise and then something like _hope_ , like this was some kind of fucking _treat_ or something, and god _dammit_ , that was the wrong word again!

“Then…you want me to?”

Dean’s jaw tightened as looked back down at the floor. “You—fine, you can just—you can give it a shot. But what I said still goes!” he added fiercely to the carpet.

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replied immediately. “So long as you’re certain.”

Dean nodded jerkily, still not looking at him, shifting so he was gripping the edge of the mattress tightly. “Yeah, I’m…certain. Just—stop talking,” he ground out.

That was a mistake, because Cas did stop talking, just as he was told, only he started _moving_ shortly after, sliding across the bed next to him—no, sliding _off_ of the bed next to him, sinking lower, and—fucking hell, Cas was on his knees in front of him. They were seriously gonna do this.

Cas’s hands were on the button on his jeans. He undid it easily, and then the zipper was down, and then he was tugging insistently at both his pants and his shorts, just like Dean had done to him earlier. Dean braced his hands on the bed and lifted his hips, fighting down the urge to hold his shorts up and feeling a rather unpleasant combination of awkward discomfort and jittery anticipation as Cas pulled the rest of his clothes off of him. It only got worse when Cas pushed his knees apart and scooted forward, right between his legs, without the slightest hesitation.

In the ensuing madness following Cas’s oh-so-brilliant suggestion, the mood had been pretty well ruined and so Dean was barely even half-hard anymore. But Cas seemed fine with that, one hand already working his dick while the other sank into the mattress beside Dean’s hip as he raised himself up to kiss his neck. Dean couldn’t help the small noise he made when Cas gripped his balls, Copy-Cas all the way, and dammit, this was _weird_ , because all of it felt nice, and he was getting turned on, and it was still Cas, but all of this was just the lead-up, the _preview_. Cas was getting him hard so he could _suck his dick_.

The thought just made his body get even more tense even as his gut and groin got hotter. This was _not fair_ —was there _ever_ going to be a time when he could _not_ feel like this before, during, or after whatever he did with Cas?

Despite his edginess, it didn’t take Cas too long to get him up again, the bastard. The tongue on his pulse vanished, and he couldn’t help but respond a little when Cas kissed him, slow and shallow, and Dean reclined at his gentle nudging, leaning back to rest on his elbows. But Cas didn’t stay—he kissed the corner of Dean’s mouth, then his jawline, then his throat—oh fuck, he was just working his way down, wasn’t he, and the way he was doing it—why the fuck did it feel like he’d done this a million times already?!

Idiot—because he had. Cas kissing his way down was nothing new. Except he was going to be kissing _all_ the way down. _That_ was new. _Shit._

Cas somehow took both forever and no time at all to press one last kiss against his stomach, and Dean stared at the ceiling, trembling because he had no idea why he was letting Cas do this. Half of him was seriously, _seriously_ into it, yeah, but he really wished that half would stop taking the reins so goddamn often because it was the other half that got to actually _think_ about it! And that was all he was _doing_ right now, his mind running in wild little circles, because he was frozen, stuck leaning backwards with his eyes glued to the ceiling and Cas’s fingers curling around the base of his cock, and all Dean wanted was for something to happen because if he was gonna _do this_ , why didn’t he _do it_?!

Dean’s hands convulsively knotted in the blankets at the sudden, shocking sensation of Cas’s tongue running the length of his dick. _Oh fuck_ —no, he couldn’t do this, because—it was too _messed up_ —but then wet heat was slowly enveloping his prick, because Cas was—

He kept his eyes squeezed shut, his fists tight in the sheets beneath him. No—he was not going to call time, not after _three fucking seconds_. He was not gonna do that because he knew Cas would depressed and miserable for three weeks if he did, because he knew he was right the first time when he remembered all that they’d already done this weekend, so why not this, but most of all because…because damn everything in existence with a side of “fuck you,” it felt…good. _Really_ good. Because it hadn’t just been four or five years since he’d had a blowjob—it’d been four or five years since he’d been… _inside_ anything warm and wet at all.

But why did he have to finally break his vow of un-celibacy with—with _Cas_?!

He wasn’t going very deep—in fact, all Cas was really working right now was the end of Dean’s cock, sucking tentatively while one of his hands squeezed and jerked at a steady, slow rhythm, and it felt horribly wonderful. Dean sucked in a breath when he felt Cas’s tongue stroking the tip, over and over, sending little white-hot sparks shooting down his legs, and— _Jesus_ , why did—dammit, he hadn’t been kidding when he said he’d “studied”, the friggin’ pervert.

The hand on his dick vanished, but it was back again shortly after, high between his thighs and massaging his balls as the sliding and sucking started in earnest, Cas starting to go deeper, his motions hesitant yet somehow so _sure_ , and all Dean could do to keep his sanity was just keep his eyes shut and concentrate on how it felt, not who was doing it, and under no circumstances was he to look down. Ever.

This was so fucking surreal. It was nowhere near the best he’d had, but it was nowhere near the worst, either—and even though it _wasn’t_ the best, he’d not had anything like this in so long…and the way Cas’s tongue worked the underside of his prick on every stroke, the way one hand rubbed his sack, and the way the other was pressed up against his stomach, and—sweet Jesus, the way he _hmmmed_ around his cock, how did he know how good that was, just what the fuck had he been _watching_?!

Dean’s eyes opened on reflex when Cas’s mouth suddenly vanished, but he slammed them shut again—no, there would be _no looking_. He could _not_ handle that. He heard Cas breathing a little hard, panting against his dick, and his hand was back, tight around the base, and Dean shuddered a sigh when tiny, teasing licks started up, all over, moving steadily downward until…oh, _Christ_ , Cas was sucking his balls now, his tongue rasping over them as he drew them into his mouth, his hand still leisurely jerking his cock. 

Dean wasn’t sure what was gonna make him go off the deep end first—the fact that it was _Cas_ doing it or the fact that this felt the way it did.

He struggled to try and loosen up—his entire _body_ was rigid, not just the parts that mattered, and he knew if he could just relax a little, he might stop being so torn between the wild urge to jump right out of bed and his reflexive impulse to reach down to stroke Cas’s hair, because _neither_ were gonna happen, goddammit.

Dean had just managed to loosen his fists from the blankets when Cas’s soft mouth was suddenly back on his dick and ruined any progress he might’ve made in relaxing. Cas’s fingers were sliding along his thighs, trailing up until he was gripping his hips, his thumbs digging into his flesh. Dean sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth when Cas went as deep as he could (which…oh _shit_ , was deeper than Dean would have thought he could go), and then he shakily exhaled when Cas pulled back, his breath quick and hot over the length of him as he swirled his tongue around the end, and then it was back to the same aggravatingly awesome rhythm, just slick heat and gentle pressure and little wet sounds as he sucked, and Dean couldn’t help but rock his hips against him, just a bit.

Once more Dean’s eyes opened when Cas came up for air again, but this time he didn’t close them immediately; instead, he just stared rather dazedly up at the ceiling as he felt Cas’s hands moving, and then grunted as the muscles in his stomach contracted rather hard when Cas started working him with his mouth _and_ both hands, and his fingers were more skilled than his tongue but that didn’t really matter because Cas seemed to just _know_ that Dean liked it _right there_. Dean shifted and there was a tiny pause when he did, but then Cas just kept going. Dean, on the other hand, kept staring at the ceiling, leaning back on his hands now, his eyes half-lidded.

 _Cas is giving me head_ , he thought hazily. _I am getting a southbound swirly from an angel of the Lord. Ex-angel. Whatever. Close enough. And it feels really fucking good._ Why was he this good at this? It wasn’t like he was an expert or anything, but this just…didn’t _feel_ like…his first time to do it. What, was he molesting Bobby’s vegetables at night? No, he was not gonna think about that, he didn’t want to even _consider_ the idea of Cas _practicing_ this, all in the hopes that he’d get to do it to Dean.

When Cas’s mouth disappeared again, he didn’t stop moving his hand, his palm slick around Dean’s prick. Dean could feel his breath puffing against him, and he couldn’t tell if Cas was just taking a break or deciding he just wanted to finish him the usual way. He didn’t wonder for long; his eyes drifted shut when Cas licked slowly all the way up his cock, and then his lips were around him and he was sucking him off again, only each time he pulled back his tongue soothed across the tip and it made Dean shudder every time he did. He was actively struggling not to thrust too hard against Cas’s mouth, but it was hard to concentrate on staying still because Cas was getting more focused, more _skilled_ , and Dean was vaguely affronted with how _fast_ Cas was figuring things out. Well, he _would_ have been affronted, but Cas had to go and pick that moment to prod his tongue into the wet slit at the head of Dean’s cock, making his hips buck reflexively as a choking noise escaped him, and then he really couldn’t think about anything else.

Dean groaned when Cas hummed around his cock again as he kept going down as far as he could, all the way to the back of his throat, his tongue gliding all over the underside, and _God_ , the way he gently sucked every time he leisurely pulled back and then slid back down just as slowly was driving him crazy. Only when Cas briefly paused again did Dean realize he’d just reached up and wound his fingers through Cas’s hair, but he didn’t have any time to be irritated that he’d just done what he’d said he wasn’t gonna do because Cas was moving again, his hand back on his sack, and all Dean could think about was how it felt, how _all_ of it felt…

“Harder,” he murmured before he could stop himself, and for a split second he wondered if Cas even knew what he was saying, but apparently yes, he did. The gentle, maddening sucking suddenly wasn’t so gentle anymore, and Dean figured he could be offended later by the positively _girly_ whimper he’d just let out—and then he went and broke yet another of his self-imposed rules. He couldn’t help it—when Cas sucked hard at just the head, his tongue circling and prodding, punctuating his actions with well-timed squeezes of his hand before swallowing him again, Dean looked down.

His breath caught, not because of his dim surprise that the sight of Cas sucking his cock _didn’t_ make him want to run screaming for the hills—but because Cas was looking back. He was staring right up at him, a hopeful and nervous and “how would you rate me?” expression there, yeah, but it wasn’t just that—no, he was also looking _reverent_ again, and _adoring_ , and wanting nothing more in the world than to please _just him_ , and—Jesus _Christ_ , Dean could tell just from his eyes that he was enjoying this as much as Dean was—

“ _Fuck_ , Cas,” he moaned, tilting his head back and closing his eyes again as his fingers tightened in his hair, his hips rocking in time with Cas’s mouth. That _look_ —he’d seen it a million times, but seeing it _there_ , from _that angle_ , somehow it made the fire in his belly roar into a blaze, and he could feel the tension starting to knot in his groin, and it wasn’t long before he was panting. “ _Faster_ ,” he breathed, and gasped when Cas obliged him.

He didn’t care about anything anymore. He didn’t care that he had both of his hands fisted in Cas’s hair now, didn’t care that he was panting and moaning and muttering half-coherent encouragements, didn’t care that he was getting sucked off by a guy. He didn’t care that Cas was inexperienced and a little clumsy, and he didn’t care that just a while ago he’d been freaking out about this. All that mattered was _this_ —his hot, wet mouth, the sucking pressure, the way Cas’s tongue stroked over him, the way one hand touched and stroked everything his mouth couldn’t reach and the way his other hand squeezed his hip tightly. All that mattered was that it was _Cas_ —Cas doing it to him, doing it _for_ him, and _Jesus_ , yes, he was winding tighter, hotter, and his hips were thrusting faster—

He knew it was gonna be either a few more seconds or a few more strokes, whichever was first, and the tiny coherent part of his brain was what spurred him to tug Cas’s hair a little, trying to give him fair warning, “C—Cas, I’m gonna—you—” he gasped, and _fuck fuck fuck yes, he was about_ —

_And then the son of a bitch just stopped._

Dean made a strangled noise that sounded like a dying cat as his head snapped up and he looked wildly down at Cas because it was _gone_ , the heat was gone, the pressure was gone, the wet was gone, _all of it_ , and he was _stuck here_ , and he saw Cas, looking anxious and concerned and he saw the line of saliva trailing from his lower lip all the way to Dean’s twitching cock, and he saw how it was glistening and wet and _what the fuck was he doing, why was he talking?!_

“Do you want me to stop?”

“ _No, I don’t want you to fucking stop, you asshole, not now!_ ” Dean snarled, his outrage diminished by how choked and desperate he sounded, and under any other circumstances he would have laughed at the way Cas’s eyes widened in surprise, but these were _not_ funny circumstances, _nothing about this was fucking funny_ , and—oh God, his mouth was back, and he was moving faster and sucking harder and Dean’s fingers knotted in his hair because—yes, _yes_ —

He barely felt the way Cas’s movement stuttered as he grunted in surprise because _fuck_ , everything just _exploded_ , and he couldn’t stop himself from shouting mindlessly to the ceiling because Cas still had his mouth around him and _holy God, he kept going, he was still sucking_ , and he couldn’t think, couldn’t stop moaning and who the fuck cared who heard him, _fuck, Cas—Cas—!_

All too soon he came crashing back down from wherever he’d been flying, and he was unceremoniously slammed back into his body. The weight of limbs that felt like they were made of lead came first, and he sagged where he sat, slowly falling backwards until he was staring up at the ceiling, his head spinning, the aftershocks of his orgasm still sparking behind his eyes and through his body. He hissed and twitched when he felt Cas’s mouth slowly sliding away from his softening prick, and he heard a muffled cough. Then there was a warm hand curling around the outside of his knee, and a rough cheek pressed on the skin of his inner thigh. Forcing himself to move, he sluggishly managed to get himself propped up on his elbows and raised his head enough to look down to find Cas sitting quietly between his legs, leaning his head against his thigh.

He was just staring up at him, looking content and satisfied like there was nowhere else he’d rather be right now. Dean blinked rather stupidly down at him, but then his eyes zeroed in on the wet smear clinging near the corner of Cas’s mouth—Jesus _fuck_ , the son of a bitch had even _swallowed_ , and even though he felt like a wrung-out towel, a rill of heat still trickled down his spine to his crotch at the thought.

“Dude,” he started, and coughed to clear his gravelly throat. “Uh—wipe your mouth, man,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the spot on his face.

Cas raised his head a little before he looked down and—god _dammit_ , the tip of his tongue poked out to lick it up.

Call him a kinky bitch, but Dean had always had a thing for kissing girls after a good BJ, and watching Cas lap up that that last bit of his come…well, he didn’t see any difference now, so he managed to sit up and tugged Cas’s arm. Cas rose obediently up on his knees so Dean could lean down and find his waiting mouth with his tongue, and _fuck_ yes, he could taste it, the salt and musk and, best of all, just _Cas_.

Dean pulled away, but then just leaned his forehead down against Cas’s, his eyes closing and his hands resting on Cas’s waist. He was pretty sure his bones had turned to jelly and that Cas was the only thing holding him up right now. Or not, ‘cause Cas had just pulled away and Dean didn’t fall down, just opened his eyes again to see him peering back, his face a little anxious and a little shy again, which was ridiculous, given where his mouth had just been. Now he was starting to fidget like he wanted to say something—wanted to _ask_ something, and Dean had a very good idea what it was.

Cas asking him how he rated on a scale of one to ten wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear right now. But he was worrying his lip, and Dean remembered that look on his face before, unsure but hopeful, only at the time he’d had Dean’s cock in his mouth…he forced his throat to work, clearing it again so he could gruffly say, “That—uh—that was pretty awesome, Cas.”

Cas’s forehead instantly smoothed out, that stupid contented look plastering itself all over his face, only now Cas looked way more proud of himself than he had any right to be. Dean gave a mental harrumph; someone needed to tell Cas to get over himself before his head inflated past thirty-five pounds. Dean had a good mind to do it right now, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Then may I do it again?”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up— _what?_ Dude, he just finished—did he think his dick was a radio antenna or something?

“Another time,” Cas clarified, actually picking up on Dean’s incredulous look.

Oh, so now Cas thought this was gonna be a _regular_ thing. He scowled—dammit. Why did Cas always do this? He gave him an inch, and he took—okay, so that wasn’t the best adage at the moment.

Dean sighed. He wasn’t going to try and lie to himself and pretend that he wanted to keep this a one-time-only thing because he hadn’t just been being nice: after his long dry spell, that _had_ been awesome, and now that he knew he could get it, he knew he’d want it again. Not to mention that the part of him that was still hot for Cas ( _goddammit_ ) kept thinking that if that was Cas’s first blowjob, imagine what’d he’d be like with _practice_. But there were some fucking rules for stuff like this, and now he was gonna have to explain them because Cas was retarded.

“I—yeah. You could…do it again. But only if you really wanted to. You don’t— _have_ to, like, every time,” he managed. “And you don’t _ask_ , because we—you don’t talk about this to me, okay? None of any of this is stuff you just _talk about_. If when we’re—if you wanna…do that, you just do it, don’t _ask_.”

Cas was looking up at him with his usual confused expression, but he just nodded and said, “All right.”

If Dean had been planning on saying anything else, the sudden yawn that seized him put an end to that. He scratched his head and turned to look at the clock—jeez, it was already past eleven. They had had a time of it, hadn’t they? Well, they had to get up and get out of here tomorrow, so they might as well go to sleep now. He needed it after that, anyway.

He pushed himself back up onto the bed, careful not to kick Cas in the face or something as he pulled his legs up and onto the mattress. Cas rocked back on his heels as he did and then stood up. Dean grimaced—he still didn’t want to see any more of Cas than he had to, so of course that must be why Cas used every opportunity to try and poke his eye out. He rolled over on his side and grabbed a handful of the blankets. He had to flop around like a landed fish to get them pulled down and under him without getting up, but, hey, he was good like that.

Dean pulled the blankets up to his chest and sighed, relaxing back into his pillows. Movement of the sheets made him glance beside him; Cas was next to the bed and was turning down the covers on the other side, and then the mattress sank under his weight as he got in as well, pulling the blankets up to his ears like he always did. Dean snorted, but at the sound, Cas looked over at him— _looked_ at him, of course, because that was what Cas did, and it wasn’t until the sound of a passing car out in the parking lot jolted him out of it that Dean realized that he’d just been lying there looking back.

He coughed once, shifting around in the bed, and then reached up for the lamp over his head and turned it off, plunging the room into darkness. He rolled over, punching his pillow to get settled in. “Night, Cas,” he grunted.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, Cas did in fact research oral sex--go see just what happened in our GTBT aside “[Research](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/1969480).”


	4. Something About You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean contemplates Cas and his heart.

_December 12, 2017_

It was dark when Dean woke up. He blinked until his gummed-up eyes could make out the dim shapes of the furniture in the room and the yellowish outline of the curtains shutting out the streetlights. He was on his side, one arm draped loosely over Cas next to him, but sometime in the night the other had gotten folded uncomfortably beneath him and it had fallen asleep. That explained why he’d just been dreaming his arm was covered in ants. Gross.

With an irritated grunt, he wiggled around enough to get it out from under himself, lifting his head to squint at the glowing red numbers on the clock sitting on the table between the beds. It was about three in the morning, and he grunted again as he tucked his arm under his pillow and then flopped his head back down on top of it, closing his eyes to go back to sleep.

But then he realized that Cas had gone suddenly tense, and he rose up a little again, opening his eyes.

Cas was awake and was staring back at him, looking way more concerned than was necessary for no reason Dean could see. “What?” Dean asked hoarsely.

“I—” Cas licked his lips. “I was…cold,” he said hesitantly.

Dean snorted in amusement as he let his head drop down and his eyes fall shut. “Dude, you’re always cold,” he informed him sleepily, and he curled his arm around him, drawing him in close against his chest. Cas may have _felt_ cold all the time, but that had to be because he radiated like a skinny little space heater. Dean sighed, his hand sliding down to splay over the warm skin at the small of his back.

Dean was already being dragged down into oblivion again, but he wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t feel that Cas stayed tense for a moment longer until he just went suddenly loose, his body relaxing, and then he was burrowing down under the covers and tucking himself under Dean’s chin. Dean couldn’t help his tiny smirk; Cas was such a dork.

He was still for a moment, and Dean had almost drifted off again when he was suddenly aware of one warm hand slowly creeping up his stomach, walking on the tips of its fingers like a spider, stopping at his chest. And then the hot skin of Cas’s palm was pressing against his breastbone, his fingers spread across his ribs, and Dean could feel the dull thump of his own heart against the pressure. He didn’t move or open his eyes, but he just waited in sleepy bemusement for what he knew Cas would do next, and Cas didn’t let him down. There was a soft rustling of the blankets, and Cas’s other hand skimmed tentatively over his shoulder and up until he touched the side of Dean’s neck. His fingers easily found their very favorite spot, and Dean could feel his pulse throbbing against them.

“Man, why do you do that?” he asked abruptly. Cas started a little, but he didn’t move. Dean opened his eyes and found that Cas was still looking earnestly up at him. “You’re always taking my pulse, dude,” he said. “I’m not about to have a coronary or something—what gives?”

Cas’s eyes cut downwards, and he stared at his hand, his fingers curling slowly against Dean’s chest. He chewed on his lip for a minute, but then he looked up. “I like to feel your heartbeat,” he said, and he sounded almost bashful about it.

Dean snorted, closing his eyes again. “It’s just a heart,” he said drowsily. “No big deal—we all have one.”

He let out a huge sigh, sinking into his pillow. He was half asleep before Cas finally spoke again, and even though the words were soft, in the stillness of the room Dean heard them clearly.

“I didn’t.”

Dean furrowed his brow, and then opened his eyes once more. Cas was still there, his hand pressed tight against his chest. “I…I didn’t even know what it meant to have one,” he murmured, and then he looked up at him. No, he _looked_ at him, his eyes bright even in the dark of the room, and beneath the gentle pressure of his hand Dean felt his chest give a nearly painful lurch.

Son of a _bitch_. Cas—why did he have to—he was such a _pussy_ sometimes, goddammit! One minute he’d be fine, and then he—he had to go start that soppy shit. Why couldn’t they just do what they did and then just— _dammit!_ Well, this was not _Terms of Endearment_ , here, or any other movie with Shirley MacLaine, and he could just cut it right the fuck out. Dean would have told him so if he could get his throat to work. But it wouldn’t. And it still wouldn’t when Cas started worrying his lip again, like he always did when he was about to say something, and Dean found it was much easier to get him to shut up by just leaning down and pressing his lips against his.

He kept his eyes closed, skimming his hand along Cas’s side as he reached up to press his palm against Cas’s jaw, the roughness of his new stubble scraping against the pad of his thumb. Cas sighed against his mouth, leaning closer, and Dean felt the hand pressed against his ribs vanish only to reappear when it wrapped gently around his wrist, Cas’s fingertips unerringly seeking out the spot where Dean knew his pulse was steadily beating, and _dammit_ , his heart did that painful lurch thing again and he still couldn’t do anything to stop it. So he just didn’t bother trying to make it stop doing that and decided distraction would do instead, tugging his arm out from under the pillows so he could use both hands to pull Cas forward and in close, never breaking their kiss. It wasn’t until he felt Cas slide a knee between his own that he remembered that they were both completely naked—and right after he remembered, he realized that he didn’t really care.

That was easier, too. It was easy not to care right now, and not caring made it easier for Dean to pull Cas on top of him as he rolled on his back, sinking into the pillows. Cas’s weight was warm and comforting and everything he wanted right now. He didn’t have to think about the parts of this that were weird, so he didn’t—he just let his hands move on their own, running over all those familiar contours he’d touched a dozen times already on this trip alone, everything moving slow but sure, as if he was still half in a dream he didn’t quite want to wake up from just yet. Or maybe he was—there was something hypnotic about the way Cas kept stroking his throat as he softly sucked on his lower lip.

It was so quiet. The only sounds Dean could hear were the rustles of the sheets and the soft whisper of their breathing, slow and even with the occasional hitch when one of them touched something especially sensitive. Cas wasn’t all in a hurry (for a change), not grabby or grope-y or humpy; he had one arm curled under Dean while Dean leaned into his other palm, which was cupping his cheek as Cas nuzzled his neck. Dean just leisurely traced out each node of Cas’s spine, the fingers of his other hand sliding downwards from the small of back to the smooth curve of his ass. Dean didn’t stay there for long, though, and soon he was reaching up to bury his fingers in Cas’s hair and bring his mouth back to his own because he just wanted to kiss him—so he was gonna.

Dean wasn’t sure when he got Cas on his back again, his thighs smooth under his hands, but he had, and things just went from there like they always did. Except it _wasn’t_ like they always did, because Dean _knew_ now, and every single time he felt Cas’s fingers brush his wrists and his ribs, every time he felt Cas’s lips press against his throat, he _knew_ , and that heat in his gut would just spread all the way to his chest, and the way it squeezed his heart was nearly painful. All he could do was shut his eyes and hold Cas tightly as he kissed him, struggling to touch every inch of him at once because he just…

The fingers of one hand laced through Cas’s, squeezing hard, and Cas squeezed back and sighed when Dean reached with his other hand down between their hips, and he licked up Cas’s throat to his mouth as he moved, keeping them pressed together, his eyes closed, because now it was all sliding skin and soft lips and warm breath. Their thrusts against each other were slow and deliberate, heat blooming between them where they touched. Dean sucked gently on his tongue before letting go, bringing his forehead to rest against Cas’s and opening his eyes. For a moment all he saw was Cas beneath him, his eyes shut, lips bruised and parted, cheeks flushed, but then Cas was looking at him, _looking_ , really looking, and this time, Dean looked back.

His chest tightened to the point that he could barely breathe, but he didn’t look away. All he could see were Cas’s blue eyes, bright and wide with that intense focus that hadn’t changed even though he was human now, because that gaze wasn’t because he was an angel, that was just because he was _Cas_ , it had _always_ been Cas, and it had always been for _him_. Cas’s fingers were sliding around the back of his neck, but Dean could feel his thumb pressing against the side, and he finally tore his eyes away and buried his face against Cas’s throat; Cas’s hand moved from Dean’s neck to clutch at his back, his breathing was getting harder, and so was Dean’s, and he moved faster as Cas’s free hand joined his between them. Dean was close, and he knew Cas was, too, their fingers squeezing and stroking, and everything was so _hot_ , and part of him wanted to make it last, but then he felt Cas arching up against him and heard him gasp his name in ecstasy and he couldn’t take it anymore, he _never_ could when he did that, and he moaned as he came, his arm tight around Cas and holding him close as their hips jerked against each other’s, and he didn’t want it to end because it was Cas, _Cas, God yes_ , it was Cas, here with him and he knew, now he _knew_ , and he _loved_ it, _love it love this love you—_

It was over way too fast, like it always was, and now he had absolutely nothing left as he lay limp on top of Cas, the heat in his belly fizzling out but the warmth in his chest still strong. Cas’s fingers were in Dean’s hair, little puffs of air skating across his shoulder as he panted. Dean had no desire to move, because there was nowhere else he wanted to be right now (yeah, so what if he didn’t think he actually could move even if he’d wanted to?) but he did manage to scrape up enough energy to move a little, just enough to pull his head back, prying his eyes open again, but then let his head fall back down, bumping his forehead against Cas’s.

He blinked—Cas’s eyes were bright and shining, but…if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think Cas was close to tearing up. He looked…completely content. No, he was way past just content, even past his usual sappy and adoring thing. He looked, to make what was either a really good or a really bad comparison, like he’d died and gone to Heaven. Dean didn’t have time to think about it any more just then, though because Cas leaned up and kissed him, slow and soft, pulling Dean back down against the pillows. When he broke the kiss, he still didn’t move, just stroked his fingers gently up and down Dean’s neck, his eyes shut and his breath warm against his mouth, and Dean had no idea why he was so damn satisfied—yeah, Dean was awesome and everything, but there was no way that had been better than the last one, so what—

…and then Dean remembered that as often as not, whatever was in his head just fell out of his mouth when he came… just as he realized exactly what he’d been thinking as he had.

_Did I just—I said I—_

_Crap._

He felt his neck heating up. He had. He knew he had. What other reason could there be for Cas to look so goddamn drippy? He’d just blurted—blurted _that_ out and now there would be no living with Cas. Dammit. Well, it was too late to do anything about it at this point, doubly so since his annoyance wasn’t even doing anything against his stupid case of the warm fuzzies. Heaving an irritated sigh, he flung an arm out to grab the tissues again (Jesus, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone four times in twelve hours—how the mighty had fallen) before rolling off of Cas, passing the box over once he’d gotten his handful. At least cleanup was easy—both of them were down to their last nut.

Once he was done mopping up, he made to take aim for the trash on the far side of the bed, but Cas just took the ball of tissues from him and rolled over to pitch it for him. Dean sighed explosively and scowled up at the ceiling. Sleep was already tugging at his eyelids again, and at this point he was almost tempted to rent the room for one more day just so he could sleep until tomorrow evening. Almost—he wasn’t stupid enough to seriously consider it, though, because if they had the room for another day, Cas would just go and make him horny again. The pissant.

He sighed again, then glanced beside him. His eyes narrowed when he saw Cas was not rolling over, but was instead just curling up on his side with his back to Dean, burrowing under the covers and settling in to go back to sleep. What the hell—Cas seriously thought he could just give Dean the ol’ wham-bam? Fuck that. Cas started it this time, now he was gonna deal with the consequences. Grunting a little, he shifted onto his side; Cas jumped when Dean abruptly grabbed him around the waist, pulling him towards him. Dean tucked him in close, pushing his chest against Cas’s back and nudging his leg forward with his own so that Cas’s butt pressed firmly against his hips—now, see? That was what he was talking about. He’d just gotten off, but the feel of that ass pressing against him still gave him a little shiver of heat in his middle and stirred up a twitch of interest down south. They had to get out of here before he put himself in the hospital, man.

That didn’t stop Dean from rubbing his hips against his ass a few times, chasing the feeling, but then he sighed sleepily and settled down, getting comfortable. Cas was warm and soft, and Dean wrapped his arm low and tight across his stomach, nibbling a little on his conveniently close earlobe before resting his head against the back of Cas’s neck.

Cas had been still through all of this, but when Dean stopped moving, that’s when Cas started. Very slowly—what, did he think he was sneaking up on him?—he brought his hand down over Dean’s where it rested on his stomach. His thumb gently brushed over the back, and then his fingers curled around to press on the inside of Dean’s wrist. Dean smirked a little, and before he could think better of it, he slid his hand out of Cas’s grip and slowly skimmed his fingers up until his palm rested against Cas’s ribs, right where he could feel the thud of his heartbeat.

Cas’s shoulders hitched, and his hand came up to cover Dean’s, squeezing almost painfully tight. _Hey, now, no more of that crap._ He couldn’t take it again, not now; Dean made a soft hushing noise and pressed a kiss on his neck, and then stroked his breastbone until Cas settled down.

When Cas’s breathing had gone even and slow, Dean closed his eyes again. It was probably going on four by now. Four in the morning, and he was in a cheap motel that smelled of stale food and sex, in bed with a guy, his arm around a guy, going to sleep next to a guy after he’d gone at it four times with said guy.

And…he didn’t really care. In the end, it was Cas. Just…Cas.

And that was really all that mattered.

* * *

Very slowly, Dean became aware of something gently shaking him. He managed to crack one eye open, and all he saw was pillow—oh, yeah, his face was buried in it. He grunted, closing his eye again and shrugging off whatever was shaking him.

“Dean.”

His eyes opened again. Cas. Struggling, he finally managed to lift his head and squint blearily in the direction of the rough voice coming from somewhere to his right.

Dean screwed up his face, only partly in confusion, because he found himself staring at the front of Cas’s jeans, zipped and buttoned, and poking out of the top of those was his skinny bare stomach. He raised his eyes, and he finally saw Cas’s face, his dark hair damp and sticking out in all directions, and even half-asleep Dean managed a twinge of irritation at the soft look in his eyes and that serene, satisfied, and decidedly _smug_ look on his face—Cas had a lot of nerve, lookin’ like he was somethin’ else. So he thought he’d wiped Dean out, did he? Well, he’d better be glad that Dean had just woken up, ‘cause if he’d actually been awake right now, he would’ve shown him otherwise and let him have it.

“It’s almost ten o’clock, Dean. Checkout is in an hour,” Cas said quietly, and he moved away, shaking out the shirt that Dean now saw in his hands and sliding it over his head. Dean grunted, flopping his head back down into his pillow for a few seconds more, trying to get the gears in his head turning again before he finally rolled over on his side and stared out at the room.

It was already clean—Cas had apparently put on his French Maid costume and tided up. Dean saw both of their duffels that held their clothes waiting on the table, neatly packed by the look of it, and underneath the table was Dean’s hunting bag. The bed across from him was made, too, because Cas was an idiot and didn’t know what the hotel maid service was for. He did this every single time he and Sam had brought him along for a hunt. Well, whatever made him happy.

Dean was already swinging his legs out of bed and throwing the covers off before he remembered that he was butt-naked under there. He froze; a quick glance at the floor confirmed that yes, Cas had definitely cleaned everything, because the clothes he remembered throwing everywhere last night were gone, probably precisely folded and tucked away in his duffel bag. _Well, shit_ , he groused, annoyed at how he could feel a bit of heat on the back of his neck, but goddamn, Cas had already seen pretty much everything—up close and personal, too—so why the fuck was he getting all shy in front of him now, after all this? Gritting his teeth, he threw off the blankets anyway and got up, and he did _not_ rush for his duffel. He was just tired and stumbled a little, that’s all, and after he picked it up, it was perfectly natural to carry it in front of him. He lurched into the bathroom, and in the ten or so steps to the door, his annoyance at being embarrassed about his naked ass quickly turned into annoyance that hadn’t needed to worry at all. For all Cas had reacted, he could have been fully clothed. Bastard. Grunting to himself, he shut the door behind him, not bothering to lock it.

The shower felt nice. Sex was awesome and everything, but it sure didn’t leave you smelling like a rose afterwards. Not to mention that there were…other issues when there were two guys involved, and he grimaced as he very thoroughly scrubbed at his front with the soapy washcloth. It wasn’t like was covered or anything, but getting rid of the scale of dried spunk in the spots that he’d missed yesterday…well, it was just better.

He was out quick—you know, like Cas never was—and after toweling off, he pulled on his shorts and jeans. He left his towel draped haphazardly on his head as he ambled out of the bathroom with his bag in one hand and his toothbrush in the other, dropping his duffel on the ground as he turned to the sink to brush his teeth. Cas drifted up behind him, and Dean turned just in time to see him vanish into the bathroom; he snorted when he realized he was cleaning that up now, too, even going so far as to mop up any water that splashed on the floor with the dirty towel Dean had left in there. Dork.

By the time Cas had folded up all of Dean’s dirty towels and piled them neatly on top of the toilet tank in the bathroom, Dean was done brushing his teeth and was putting his shirt on. He rolled his eyes when he spotted Cas snatching up the towel he’d used to dry his hair from the sink and taking it into the bathroom as he folded it—but not before Dean caught him sneaking another one of those drippy looks in his direction. Snorting a little and shaking his head, he went for his socks and boots. Once he had the laces double-knotted, he started up the standard sweep of the room, checking for loose IDs, clothes that had been missed, or, most importantly, anything weapons-related, from a bullet to a knife to a gun.

He didn’t find anything—Cas apparently had been very thorough while playing Mary Poppins and tidying up the nursery. Dean had to grudgingly give him that—every time he’d gone on a hunt with any of them, absolutely nothing had been left behind or forgotten, so why should this one be different? He zipped up his duffel again, glancing over at the clock as he did. 10:45—perfect. They’d pack up, check out, and then zip over to Helga’s across town for the lunch special. Better to get there early—they’d be the first ones there, so less wait.

Cas was gathering up his bag, and when Dean stooped to grab the one on the floor with all the weapons, he saw Cas grab Dean’s duffel, too. Dean let him, simply turning to lead the way to the door, Cas trailing along behind him.

Dean had his hand on the deadbolt, ready to turn it and charge out into the cold and unlock the car so they could pack everything away and bug out, when he stopped, staring for a second at the door. He turned, looking behind him at Cas—Cas, who was standing there _looking_ at him, all blissed-out and starry-eyed and thoroughly worked over by the awesome that was Dean Winchester.

Cas. _His_ Cas.

He didn’t hesitate or fuss with himself this time around. He set his bag down, and Cas’s face went a little confused when Dean took the duffels from him and set them down too, and then Dean was curling his fingers around the back of Cas’s neck as his other arm wrapped low around his waist and drew Cas in close, and Dean’s eyes drifted shut as he softly pressed his lips against Cas’s. Dean ran his thumb against Cas’s cheek, sighing when he felt Cas reach up and gently grip his wrist, and he let the one kiss become several, tasting Cas’s mouth with his tongue. Cas leaned against him, his other hand tight on his shoulder, and Dean trailed his fingers across Cas’s throat until he could feel the soft thud of his pulse, before finally pulling back, tugging on Cas’s lower lip a little as he went, his free hand brushing down over the curve of Cas’s ass and squeezing ever so slightly.

For a moment, he just stood there, his forehead resting against Cas’s, his eyes shut, just listening to Cas’s quick breathing and feeling the steady beat beneath his fingertips, feeling Cas’s grip tighten a little around his wrist…

Dean dropped his hand abruptly, leaning back and taking a step away from Cas, smirking at the way he wobbled a little, blinking rapidly and trying to figure out what just happened. He stooped, snatching up the bag he’d dropped to the floor. “Come on—move your ass,” he said brusquely, unlocking the door and swinging it open, striding out into the cold and tugging the car keys out of his jeans’ pocket.

He opened the trunk and slung his bag in before stepping aside to let Cas throw in the bags he was carrying, and then let the trunk close with its usual heavy thunk. He looked up, and felt his neck heating a little when he saw that Cas was still _looking_ at him. Clearing his throat, he turned his back on him and moved to unlock his door and swing himself inside; he reached over and popped the passenger door open and Cas shimmied quickly inside and slamming the door, pulling himself in as small as possible and shivering a little.

Dean snorted, but the sound was lost over the roar of the engine. He cranked the heat; just hold your horses, as soon as the engine was warm he’d turn it on full blast. A quick flip of his fingers, and the tape was in, the familiar roar of AC/DC thumping from the speakers. He looked over at Cas, who still had his arms wrapped around himself—and whose eyes were still bright and fixed on Dean.

Dean blew out a breath that steamed the cold windshield for a moment, and then grabbed the stick and put the car in gear, pulling quickly out of his parking spot and bringing her around to the exit. “Let’s roll,” he said, and then pulled out onto the highway, heading home.


	5. Up Around the Bend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam notices that something has changed in his brother’s relationship with Cas.

_December 12, 2017_

This was one of those times that Sam felt he owed his brother an apology.

Dean was not known for his patience. In fact, he was known for the exact opposite. On the other hand, Sam could wait out just about anything (especially Dean). But right now, Sam felt like he could gladly take back every crack he’d ever made about Dean being fidgety and whiny and impatient when things weren’t happening fast enough for him.

Because that goddamn cast on his leg was driving him _insane_.

He was halfway through his fourth week—which meant he still had two to go. He didn’t think he was going to make it. If it had gotten to the point that even Bobby was making snide remarks about Sam’s patience dropping down to Dean-levels, then it had to be bad.

Having a cast on his wrist had been nothing to this. At least then he could still get around, still make himself useful. Hell, that cast had even served as a weapon now and again. But this? Laid up and in plaster from his ankle to his thigh? This was _torture_.

Dean thought it was hilarious, of course. There were no end to his cracks about it, from laughing how they were never going to find crutches long enough to sniggering that being that hard below the waist had to be a new experience for Sam.

He’d changed his tune when Sam kicked him in the shins with it.

_Oh, crap—not again._

Yes, again—that _itch_! He swore it was the same one, and that it _moved_ , creeping all around under the cast to places where he couldn’t get to it!

Sam snatched up the backscratcher that he’d made Dean get for him and started the desperate process of working it under the plaster just trying to reach—ah. There. He relaxed as he scratched furiously right there on the side of his knee. Infinitely better.

Sighing, his relief giving way to frustrated boredom again, he slumped back into the couch.

He didn’t know how Bobby did it. Sam was always picking on Dean for being such a whiner about doing research during a job, but after being locked up here for going on four weeks doing nothing _but_ research—yeah. He was beginning to sympathize. Bobby was just a machine, he decided, to do this day in and day out. Cas, too, for that matter. At least they could get up and move around, though; Sam would gladly take over Cas’s laundry duties just for something to _do_. If only he could get down the stairs with the clothes.

But, no. He was just gonna sit here and stew, because that was all he could do. He sure as hell wasn’t going to watch that soap opera crap that Dean was so enamored of. It made him feel like his brain was atrophying just being in the same room with it.

Dean had been a nuisance for the most part while he was here. Yeah, it’d been decent of him to stick around while Sam was laid up, and neither one of them liked the other to hunt alone if they could help it, so it worked out for all involved. But Dean didn’t do idleness any more than Sam did, and it wasn’t long before he stopped being useful for running errands and keeping Sam from getting bored and just turned into pain in the ass.

The haunted house case that had come up had been nothing short a Godsend—anything to get him out of the house and away from Sam. And even more importantly, anything to get _Cas_ out of the house and away from Sam!

Good _night_ —he’d thought Bobby had just been telling them his usual exaggerated stories about how Cas turned into such a complete mother hen when he had the slightest sniffle. Nope—in fact, he’d been _understating the truth_. Sam had been waited on by Cas before, but he’d been really sick at the time and had appreciated it. Dean was a crap nurse, and when Sam had been on his back for a week with the flu, having Cas fluttering around him and making him soup and bringing him medicine and blankets had been great. But this was an entirely different situation. Because, despite his complaining? Aside from being a bitch to deal with, a broken leg was no big deal. He just had to keep up with his pain meds and not do anything strenuous.

Cas didn’t see it that way. No, as far as Cas was concerned, Sam was at freaking death’s door and absolutely required a full six weeks of bed rest, to spend the entire time hopped up on morphine, and to be spoon-fed cream-of-wheat and baby food and _by God_ he was gonna be the one to do it. Dean had about laughed himself sick at Sam’s reaction when, after he’d been complaining about how much of a hassle it was to even wash himself with that stupid cast, Cas had very earnestly offered to give him a sponge bath.

Yes—at that point, Sam would have taken _anything_ to get him out of the house. _Both_ of them—they deserved each other.

And they were getting each other.

Sam couldn’t help the way his mouth twisted in amused disgust. His brother was an idiot. Seriously.

When Bobby had come across a series of freak deaths in Southern Indiana, Sam really hadn’t had any thoughts about it other than it was a possible new job. That, and that he _really_ wished he could go check it out, because that would mean getting off the damn couch. But obviously he wasn’t going to be of any use to anybody, so he’d stayed behind while Dean had told Bobby not to ship it out to someone else and instead went to check it out himself and took Cas with him. It had been a case, and they’d called back for information on the way, and managed to exorcise the spirit in question. That had seemed to be the end of it, only when Sam called them up to check in on them, Dean had been…evasive. His voice was too jovial as he told Sam all about how oh, it was _Cas’s_ fault they were taking so long to get back on the road, yeah, he _wanted_ to leave but Cas was a wimp, so they were just gonna _have_ to stay in their motel for an extra day or two, wasn’t that such a tragedy.

Trying to hold back his incredulous laughter, Sam couldn’t help but call him on it. If he hadn’t already figured out just what they were up to, Dean’s panicked silence on the other end of the phone would have told him everything. So Sam just gracefully provided him the out he really wanted, and the relief in Dean’s voice as he snatched at the excuse was audible over 700 miles away.

Sam had just told him that he’d see him later with what even he admitted was a patronizing voice; Dean didn’t notice, and Sam just snapped the phone shut and closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Yeah—that was _exactly_ what he’d wanted to know about the trip. _Thanks for that._

When he’d shaken his head and opened his eyes again, he’d found Bobby giving him a sardonic look. “What’s up with them?” he’d asked.

“We don’t want to know,” Sam informed him.

Bobby just snorted. “They turn the job into a romantic weekend getaway?”

Sam grimaced. “Yeah,” he’d said, his voice tired. “But we don’t know that.”

“Of course not,” Bobby replied dryly.

Well—that had been yesterday evening. Dean had claimed that the two of them would be back the next day. Sam had been skeptical—not that he wanted to speculate what the two of them could be doing to make them lose track of time, but he did not doubt their abilities to do it—except he’d gotten a phone call from Cas just twenty minutes or so ago. Turned out they had just rolled into town, and Dean had made him call to ask if Sam and Bobby wanted them to pick up some dinner before they hit the house.

Sam did—and he wanted them to hurry up about it, too. He was hungry. He was also getting a bit of a soft-spot in his middle from sitting still for weeks on end, which pissed him off, but he wasn’t about to starve himself for it. Of course, he’d heard Dean’s derisive noise over the phone when Cas had relayed to him that Sam wanted a salad—as far as he was concerned, Sam _was_ starving himself. Yeah, well, soft-spot or no, he wasn’t the one who was developing something of a spare tire. That was Dean—and, funnily enough, Cas. The former angel, they’d discovered, had a monster of an appetite, and while his scrawny little vessel seemed to have the metabolism to handle most of it, it couldn’t quite keep up with the ridiculous amounts Cas could eat.

_Shit—here we go again._ Snarling, he grabbed his backscratcher and stretched down with it to get to his toes—oh, yeah.

He’d just relaxed with another relieved sigh when he heard the low, familiar rumble of an engine pulling around the back. He looked up, peering out the window, and caught a glimpse of the Impala pulling in to Dean’s favored parking spot.

_About time._ Sam sat up straighter as he heard the sound of the car doors opening and closing, not particularly wanting to be caught lounging on the sofa like Nero. He turned a bit, dropping his good leg down on the floor and wiggling his toes against the cold floorboards; his foot was bare because he wasn’t about to wear a one shoe and sock with the ridiculous shorts (which Dean gleefully referred to as “nut-huggers”) that he was stuck wearing for the duration of this stupid cast.

The back door flew open with a bang, and Dean ambled in, his backpack slung over his shoulder and his hands full of paper sacks. “Hey, Dean,” Sam called.

“Hey, there, Sammy,” he said easily. “Meals on Wheels have arrived, catering to the invalid since 1978.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened; Dean just gave him an obnoxious smirk while he set the bags down on the kitchen table. Sam grabbed his crutches where they were propped against the wall (and they had had some that were long enough, thank you very much) and hauled himself to his feet just in time for Cas to come wandering in the back door after Dean. He was carrying two duffel bags, and the minute he saw Sam standing there, his face went all concerned. “Are you all right, Sam?” he asked anxiously. “Should you be up? Do you need me to get you something?”

Ignoring Dean’s un-subtle snort, Sam just rolled his eyes and said, “I’m fine, Cas—just hungry.”

Cas didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway and moved to set his bags down by the couch. At the sound of footsteps on the back stairs, Sam looked over to Bobby emerging from the basement. “Well, hail the conquering heroes,” he said.

“Damn straight,” Dean agreed, rooting around in the paper sack on the table from which Sam could smell the greasy aroma of French fries. One corner of his mouth quirked up as he maneuvered his leg around and managed to sit down in a chair on the outside of the table where he could stick his leg out, and as he twisted around to reach over and lean his crutches against the cabinets behind him he spotted Cas—

Oh boy. Cas was just standing there, hovering in the doorway between the kitchen and the library, and he had a familiar and unmistakable look on his face.

Sam really had to give credit where credit was due. He’d only been half-joking back when he’d told Dean that he didn’t want to have to see anything he didn’t want to with regards to his and Cas’s relationship. But he was still half-joking, because seriousness aside, he really didn’t expect not get the occasional eyeful. Old habits died hard, and Dean loved rubbing Sam’s nose in it any time he got some action. Not to mention he was just generally quite careless when it came to his bedroom escapades, and whenever he got up to no good, even if he didn’t say anything Sam invariably found out all about it.

But amazingly, Sam _hadn’t_. Aside from spotting Dean asleep in the same bed as Cas once or twice—and even then their positions had been entirely innocent, no different than the few irritating times Sam himself had been forced to share a bed with Dean due to a lack of other options—he had only once been blindsided by way too much information about what the two of them got up to. And in all fairness, that one time hadn’t even been Dean’s fault—that one had been on Cas. Against all odds, Dean had somehow shaped up with regards to his nocturnal exploits and never breathed a word of it to Sam, never gave so much as a hint, and Cas didn’t either.

And yet, it didn’t matter. Because Sam knew anyway. _Everybody_ knew anyway. Oh, he never saw anything going on, never heard a peep from either of them about what they may or may not be doing, but he didn’t have to. Because most of the time, Dean and Cas were perfectly normal, talking and interacting as usual, with Cas being a dork and Dean making fun of him just like he always had even before they’d gotten together—but sometimes they just… _weren’t._ Some days, usually their first morning back at Bobby’s after a long trip, Dean would just…disappear. He’d be gone all day, be it simply outside tinkering with his car or off in town on vague and mysterious errands.

But Cas would still be there. And one look at him was just about enough to make Sam want to flee too—‘cause he’d float around the house with this starry-eyed, damn-near _exultant_ look on his face and spend the whole day in a dopey haze, prone to fits of dreamy spacing-out that were hard to snap him out of. And if he caught the barest glimpse of Dean when he was sneaking around the house trying not to be seen, his face would absolutely light up like the sun.

It was revolting. And he was doing it right now.

Dean, mercifully, hadn’t noticed that Cas was making eyes at him yet, all his attention taken up by setting out his burger. Sam didn’t doubt, though, that he’d see it soon enough, and that would be it. As if it hadn’t already been painfully obvious enough how they’d spent their time on their day off.

Bobby had come over to the table from the fridge, four beers gripped in one hand and a bottle of ketchup and another of mustard in the other, and he plonked them down on the table before grabbing one of the sacks and peering inside. He closed it in disgust a moment later and shoved it in Sam’s direction. “Here’s your alfalfa,” he told him.

Sam gave him an un-amused smile and took his sack, pulling his salad out, only for Cas to appear in the seat across from him. “Can I help you with anything?” he wanted to know.

“No, Cas, I’m fine,” Sam repeated impatiently as Dean snickered. “My hands still work.”

Cas was fretfully chewing on his lip and looked about like he was gonna start trying to open up and dress Sam’s salad for him anyway, until Bobby shoved a chicken sandwich and a box of fries under his nose and told him to quit bothering Sam and eat. He obediently opened his sandwich, but Sam could still feel his eyes on him as he cast the occasional worried glance his way, as if he expected him to keel over at any moment.

Sam defended Cas against Dean’s name-calling, but secretly, he kind of agreed with him: Cas was a hypochondriac. He had been ever since he’d broken his wrist. And he projected it onto everybody else.

Bobby had found his dinner and dropped down into the seat next to Cas, and—Dean was sliding into the seat next to Sam?

That was new; given the morning-after state that Cas was clearly in, Sam had fully expected Dean to play his part and take his food outside to car like he usually did. But no, he had unwrapped his burger and spread it out in front of him, a large order of fries resting on the paper with it, and he surveyed his spread with far more satisfaction than a crappy cheeseburger from some greasy spoon warranted before tucking in.

Sam watched him, vaguely surprised, and when he finally shook himself and went back to his salad, he caught Bobby’s eye across the table. He raised his eyebrows at him, questioning; Bobby shrugged minutely and then rolled his eyes in Cas’s direction, and then just started to work on his food.

The room was silent except for a great deal of chewing for a while after that. Sam knew Dean would eventually have to tell them all about the hunt and how awesome he was, but food always came first—especially a cheeseburger. Sam was chewing a mouthful of lettuce and had just looked up and reached out to grab his beer when—dammit.

Cas was doing it again. His sandwich had one bite taken out of it but was just sitting on the waxed paper in came in, the blob of mustard he’d squirted out on the wrapper that he liked to dip his fries in untouched, and Cas was just sitting there, the most ridiculously adoring expression on his face as he stared across the table at Dean.

Jesus, it was almost enough to put him off his food. Sam took a fortifying drink of beer and set the bottle down just in time for Dean to look up, turning towards him to say something—undoubtedly one of his many pieces of “wit,” judging by the smarmy look on his face—only for him to spot Cas looking at him.

He faltered, whatever immensely clever thing he’d been about to favor Sam with dying in his throat; Sam tensed, but Dean just quickly went back to his dinner, taking a huge bite and chewing methodically, his cheeks a little pink as he very studiously moved the grains of salt from his fries around with the tip of his finger.

Huh—the last time Sam had seen Dean meet Cas’s eyes when he was giving him one of those uncomfortably syrupy looks, Dean had fled the scene immediately. Sam went deliberately back to his salad, and could see Cas placidly picking up his sandwich for another bite like nothing had happened.

However, by now the silence at the table had stretched out longer than it would have normally, to the point it was getting a bit awkward; Dean had been about to break it after taking the edge off his appetite, right on schedule, only now he was right back to devoting all his concentration to his food and not looking at or talking to anyone. Sam tactfully opted to fill in the void, asking Bobby if he’d found anything on whatever bizarre creature Garth had claimed to have seen this morning when he’d called them looking for answers.

“Idjit wanted me to look into chupacabras, of all the stupid crap,” Bobby grunted.

“There’s no such thing,” Sam derisively.

“Yeah, that’s what I told him, but he was dead set on it—so I looked, and everything he said was all wrong for it, so that pretty much put the end to that. Looked to me more like he had a bugbear or something—if nothing else, no chupacabra ever killed any kids, and he claims that’s this thing’s MO.” Bobby shrugged. “I told him how to kill it—he said he’d call back when he did.” He picked up a fry and swiped it through the last of the ketchup on his wrapper, and as he popped into his mouth said, “Hey, Cas—pass the ketchup.”

Sam was chewing another bite and looking up at Bobby to suggest that maybe Garth was chasing a jackalope, only to find Bobby giving Cas a dirty look, because he hadn’t passed the ketchup—because he was gazing all tenderly at Dean again.

Bobby looked at the ceiling as though praying for patience, and then just delivered sharp kick to the leg of Cas’s chair. Cas jumped a mile—and so did Dean—as Bobby loudly said, “Hey—Romeo—wake up and pass the ketchup!”

Sam’s spine went rigid. _Shit, Bobby, what are you trying to do?!_ He couldn’t help it, he knew it would only make it worse, but he looked over at Dean—

Who hadn’t moved. He was hunched down in his chair, not looking at anyone, and the back of his neck was the color of raw beef, but he was still sitting there, eating the last of his fries with mechanical precision.

Sam gave him an incredulous look and turned to Bobby, but he was just taking the ketchup that Cas was meekly holding out toward him and didn’t seem to care what Dean was doing. Then both of them went back to their food, just in time for Dean to abruptly crumple his wrapper and stand up quickly, sending his chair scooting behind him with a loud scrape of the legs on the floor.

Sam let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as Dean chucked his trash and crossed quickly to the liquor cabinet. Well, he was pissed now, hitting the booze already and then he would go out and sulk in the car for the rest of the evening, thanks, Bobby—

Which was why Sam could only watch in surprise as Dean took one long drink from the glass the poured, topped it off again—and then crossed back to the table. He detoured to pick up one of the plastic sacks he’d tossed aside when he came in, but he came right back over to the table, pulled out his chair so that it was facing the opposite direction, and sat right back down next to Sam.

Sam blinked at him as he went to digging around in the sack until he came up with a clear plastic clamshell containing a piece of chocolate pie; he twisted in his seat to toss the sack back behind him on the table, but then he just settled down in his chair with his back to everyone and popped open the container, digging into his pie with the accompanying plastic fork.

It took Sam a moment more to go back to the rest of his salad, eating very slowly, wary as if he was sitting next to a wild animal, but Dean was playing total indifference. Sam knew he was faking it, ‘cause his neck and cheeks were still flushed, and he was just a bit too deliberate in the way he wasn’t looking at anyone—but he was still here. He hadn’t run away.

Sam glanced over at Cas; he was oblivious, just eating his sandwich now, apparently not so inclined to get all lovey-dovey looking at the back of Dean’s head. As Sam turned back to his salad, he saw Bobby looking at him, and when he met his eyes, Bobby gave a very exaggerated look to the side at Cas, then one over at Dean’s back and just shook his head.

Muffling a snort, Sam could only agree. _Idiots._


End file.
